


Bold Indeed

by KyeS (FancyTrinkets)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adding that happy ending tag because yes of course they're still together after Trespasser, Backstory, Canon divergence regarding Ostwick, Diary/Journal, Emotional Baggage, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Inquisitor & Cassandra friendship, Letters, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Loyalist mage point of view, M/M, Mage Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Mages (Dragon Age), Original Character(s), Ostwick Circle (Dragon Age), POV Inquisitor (Dragon Age), POV Third Person Limited, Pavelyan - Freeform, Requited Love, Romance, Sex, Sided with Mages, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 78,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26142142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyTrinkets/pseuds/KyeS
Summary: Galen Trevelyan thinks of Ostwick, where his friends are still safely sequestered, keeping well away from the war. He wishes, and not for the first time, that more circles had been like Ostwick, and fewer like Kirkwall.Mage Trevelyan's story, revealed through letters, documents, and narrative.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 41
Kudos: 50





	1. Haven & Hinterlands

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this story deviates from canon in that the Ostwick Circle doesn't disband before the Conclave. I wanted it to stick around for a while and then continue to influence Trevelyan's thoughts as he rethinks the good and the bad about Circles in the Free Marches, Ferelden, and Orlais. Also, the level of influence that Trevelyan's family has with the Chantry is enhanced somewhat beyond what canon suggests. Original characters are kept to a minimal role, primarily in letters and journal entries.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter opens with a journal entry, followed by narration.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Haven 

_Here I am at the far end of another divide. And to mark my passage across, I've picked up a souvenir, though it's not like any of the others that have come before it. And by those I mean normal things: a child's wooden sword, an old copper ring, a broken heart._

_For as long as I can remember, I've measured my life by looking backwards across an impassable divide. In my wistful youth I thought if only I could return somehow to relive my early childhood, but differently — unmarred by the emergence of my own magic — then everything discordant would become resolved. Family. Faith. The bland prospect of my own future as a man destined to grow old behind Circle walls._

_I was just a boy. My understanding of the world was simplistic, and I was prone to idealized fantasy._

_But then, for a time, there was Marcus — my friend and my refuge. In those few years with him before my Harrowing, I felt whole and content. For the first and only time, my real life was in harmony with the perfection I imagined for myself._

_It didn't last._

_Marcus chose to be Tranquil, and my world fell apart. But even that was a manageable point of crossing. The change in our relationship was not as sudden as the severing of his magic. For many months afterwards, I tried to cling to what we were. I eased my way into what we had become. Still friends, but differently so._

_All this to say, I'm no stranger to these moments of life-altering circumstance — these terrible points of no-turning-back._

_And yet, this new change is different and entirely worse. It's otherworldly — a mark etched green and menacing into the flesh of my left hand. It's beyond my power to explain._

_Fortunately, it doesn't hurt. Or, not exactly. Not pain, but prickles and twinges. It feels powerful. Dangerous._

_So, yes, I'm out of my depth with this one. And I'm just smart enough to know it._

* * *

**Haven, Day 6**

Galen Trevelyan crosses the yard alongside Quartermaster Threnn. She brings him to the armory, which in truth is no more than a locked room in the chantry with a handful of weapons to choose from.

"Is this all we have?" Galen asks.

He must look dismayed, because the quartermaster bristles and responds rather curtly.

"Perhaps you failed to notice. I've outfitted every soldier here."

At that, Galen remembers himself. He's new here — barely trusted by the founders of this new-formed Inquisition. It's hardly his place to be blunt in sharing his observations, at least not until he's built some rapport among these people.

"Forgive me," he says. "You're right. I only meant that we'll need to do better by you. Build a better stockpile."

He takes a minute to inspect the weapons before he selects a bladed staff enchanted with ice runes. It's nothing special. 

"We'll have to do what we can," he says. "Seize weapons from the rebels in the Hinterlands."

Threnn nods. "That'll help. But even more than that, we'll want raw materials. Keep an eye out for logging sites, surface mines, quarries... that sort of thing."

He follows her back to the yard, doing his best to keep the conversation flowing. He considers it a modest success when she relaxes enough to share details about her life. When she mixes in a few strong, unpopular opinions about the state of Ferelden politics, Galen nods politely and makes a mental note not to mention King Alistair in her presence.

After that, Galen continues his rounds. He checks in with Cassandra for an informal briefing about their expedition, leaving tomorrow for the Hinterlands. He makes smalltalk with a few of the soldiers, chats up the blacksmith, and then goes out of his way to exchange pleasantries with Commander Cullen, the former templar. 

He's still exhausted and overwhelmed by everything that's happened in the past several days. But he's trying his best to be a steadying presence — cooperative, sociable, unintimidating. His strategy seems to be working, because every day fewer people whisper and stare as he passes by. More of them smile and nod. And rather than flinching away, the young elf he frightened on the first day he woke up is now asking questions about his hand. And when he holds it out for her to examine, she leans closer and marvels at it, her mouth falling open.

"It sparkles sometimes," she says.

"And I have no idea why." Galen smiles when he says it. 

In truth, the mark unnerves him, but he's not about to share that with anyone here. He's a mage. He can't afford to be feared.

* * *

**The Hinterlands, Day 10**

"'Perhaps we can talk to them,' you said. 'Surely a few of them can be reasoned with.' Hah!" 

They're pinned down behind the safety of a large boulder and Varric is brutally mocking him, throwing his own words — spoken only a few hours ago — right back in his face.

"Alright, yes, I admit I was wrong."

Galen attempts to peek around the boulder to assess the situation further. But he's forced to dart back quickly as an arrow whizzes past his ear.

"Tell, you what, Varric," he says. "You can chastise me all you like once we're safely back at camp."

"Apparently, you still think that's possible," Varric says. 

"I do." 

Galen grins. His confidence hasn't faltered, despite their seemingly dire predicament. 

Their retreat is cut off by a sheer rock wall, rising to a high ledge behind them. Galen's fairly sure he could scale it, but the attempt would be risky and it would leave Varric alone and still cornered. Therefore, it's not an option. 

In front of them is an open glade with two rebel templars crouched behind the ruins of an ancient stone wall. All in all, Galen thinks, he and Varric are well positioned to be slaughtered immediately if they try to step away from the lee of the stone and move forward. 

Nor can they count on a rescue. Cassandra and Solas are somewhere far across the valley, battling against mages or picking elfroot or doing Maker knows what else on this beautiful, sunny day in the countryside.

Precarious though it is, their situation is not all bad.

"The good thing," Galen says, "is that those templars are continually suppressing my magic."

Varric snorts. "I think I misheard. Did you just call that 'the good thing?'"

"Yes, and here's why," Galen says, and he quickly explains his point.

"If either of them were stronger or better trained, they'd have already deployed a pillar of light to stun us and charge in for the kill. Instead, they're hanging back, trying to keep us in place. And they've been diligently quelling my magic the whole time. That means they're afraid of us."

"Afraid of you."

"And of your vicious crossbow. Don't sell her short; I've seen what she did to that last fellow's armor."

At last, Varric laughs. "Yeah, I call that move the templar pincushion."

"So here's what will happen," Galen continues. "The one with the sword's going to charge us. It will have to be soon, before they burn through all their lyrium. They'll expect us to stay hidden, afraid to get shot by that archer at the wall. But I can promise you, as soon as the swordsman charges we can step out safely. The archer won't dare stop what he's doing long enough to pick up his bow. All his attention will stay fixed on disrupting my magic."

"And then what?"

"Then I tackle the one who's charging us, while you dash past us both to shoot the archer. After that, it's two against one. We take him down together, easy as pie."

Varric looks at him, but doesn't immediately reply. His expression is grim, as though he doesn't trust these odds. 

"You ever successfully tackled a templar before?"

"Plenty of times." Galen chuckles. "Though under vastly different circumstances."

Varric shoots him a look — one that clearly conveys the time-honored sentiment of _You've got to be fucking kidding me._

"No, look," Galen says. "I've sparred with templars in the Circle yard, with armor and swords and all that. Just for fun. And I've tackled a few of them there. It's not just the bedroom stuff."

Varric sighs, long and beleaguered.

"Tackling templars. And this is your best idea?"

"It'll work," Galen says.

"Sure it will." 

Varric takes a break from crouching and sits down in the grass with his back to the stone. He shifts his crossbow onto his lap and runs his fingers along its body, caressing it in a way that seems to comfort him.

"So for now all we do is– what?" he asks. "Sit back and wait? Listen for the clanking sound of a templar sprinting towards us?"

"That," Galen says, "and hope they don't have reinforcements on the way."

"And if they do?"

"If they do, we're fucked. And not in the good way."

That earns him a bitter laugh from Varric.

They both fall silent, and Galen looks up at the bright blue sky, where the only clouds are high above and wisplike, set in a pattern that reminds him of quilted cloth. He thinks of Ostwick, where his friends — both mages and templars — are still safely sequestered, keeping well away from the war. He wishes, and not for the first time, that more circles had been like Ostwick, and fewer like Kirkwall.

"Hey, Trevelyan," Varric says, interrupting his daydream.

"What is it?"

"Have I told you yet how much I hate the wilderness?"

"Yes, Varric. Several times now."

"Alright. Just making sure."

* * *

Later that evening, when they're safely back at camp, Varric embellishes the story of their daring escape. He adds a third templar, and makes the tackling scene play out with more finesse — until it's nothing at all like Galen's quick, brutal move to snap a young man's neck. 

Varric leaves out the part after that. No one else needs to hear how Galen knelt in the grass, staring down at his own trembling hands, and confessed that he'd never killed a living person before. 

It was so much worse than he ever imagined.

* * *

**The Hinterlands, Day 16**

"You'll just have to get used it," Cassandra tells him.

They walk through the damp grotto. All around them, the bodies of mages are strewn, lying dead where they fell. With this victory by the Inquisition, a significant stronghold of the mage rebellion in the Hinterlands has been wiped out. 

Galen looks down at all the new corpses. A few of them died on Cassandra's sword and several are shot through with arrows. But the clear majority bear fatal scorch marks from Galen's attack with fire and lightning. Their eyes are wide open, and yet unseeing. They died in terror, afraid of a fellow mage whose command of the elements outmatched their own. 

"Get used to murdering people?" Galen says. 

To be perfectly honest, he's already getting used to it. That's what gnaws at him. 

"It's not my preference either," Cassandra says. "But in these situations, we don't have the luxury of choice."

Solas approaches them. There's something unnerving about him and his strange, quiet mannerisms, but the depth of his knowledge is useful. 

"We can't leave these bodies here," he says. "Listen."

A hidden water source is somewhere nearby. Galen can hear it dripping. 

Solas is right. Festering corpses could pollute the water supply in this area and cause sickness. Then all their hard work to safeguard the villagers would be for naught.

"Our soldiers will clear out the cave and build the pyre," Cassandra says. "If what the scouts say is true, we have more rifts to close in this area."

"Right," Galen says, "let's do that." 

Perversely, the thought of demons cheers him. He likes the way his magic rips through them, tearing them apart and banishing them from the world. Their destruction doesn't pull at his conscience.


	2. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back from Val Royeaux, with plans to set out for Redcliffe. Chapter begins with letters home, followed by narrated scenes.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Letters from Haven to the Ostwick Circle 

_Dear Alana,_

_My friend, you'll scarcely believe it. I've been to Val Royeaux! For a second time, I suppose, but now that I'm old enough to remember it, I can appreciate it properly._

_It's as beautiful as you always imagined. The curves and detailing of the architecture, the extravagant fabrics, and all the residents in their horrible masks — which yes, I know, you would have loved._

_I'm sorry you couldn't have been there. Sorry also that I couldn't purchase you a gift. The Inquisition funds at my disposal are both tightly held and sorely needed._

_I miss you. Give my love to the rest of our friends. This strange new job keeps me busy. I can't steal away time enough to write to everyone._

_Yours, Galen_

* * *

_Dear Alec,_

_Cousin, I miss you. If my parents ask, please reassure them I didn't intend for any of this to happen. I don't remember what happened to me at the Conclave, but I'm certain I didn't do anything to cause all this destruction._

_And I'm not going around calling myself the Herald of Andraste. It's just that I can't seem to stop other people from doing so._

_I'm sure they'll accuse me of being blasphemous on purpose. It's always the same with them._

_If you can smooth things over — even a little — I'll be in your debt. They like you. After all, they always wanted an honorable templar among their sons. And I robbed them of that._

_Yours, Galen_

_P.S. You know that stupid tackling move I used to do when you and Bev and Darrien were beating me up at sparring? Well, I'm pretty sure it saved my life a couple of weeks ago. You'll get the whole story the next time I see you._

* * *

_Marcus,_

_This is Galen, writing to you. I am safe and well. And by that I mean my material needs are met and I am not experiencing any undue physical hardship. My emotional state could use some improvement, but it comforts me to think of you as I write this letter._

_One of the researchers I've met at Haven is Tranquil. I've spent time talking to her, primarily because I have much to learn and her knowledge of creatures is impressively broad and deep. But it's also true that the stillness of her presence and the cadence of her speech reminds me of you._

_May you be well,_

_Galen_

* * *

**Haven, Day 36**  
_A day after the return from Val Royeaux_

Leliana rarely sleeps. She always seems to be working — busy with reports or else meeting with agents before sending them out on assignment. Each time Galen approaches to speak with her, he gets the sense that he's interrupting affairs more important than his own.

But no, he reminds himself as he claims a bench to sit down and wait for her. Inquisition affairs _are_ his own. 

"My apologies," she says, after concluding her conversation with one of her agents and joining Galen at a rough-hewn wooden table, stationed beneath one of the tents. 

The day is bright and not much colder than usual for Haven. But a strong wind blows down from the mountains, billowing the tents with every gust. Galen tugs at the cloak of his fur-lined robes, and gathers it more securely around his shoulders.

"Now what have you brought me?" Leliana waves her hand, gesturing towards the small packet of letters Galen sets on the table between them. "You'd like these delivered to the Circle at Ostwick?"

"I–" Galen says, and then falters. He's thrown off guard by the accuracy of her guess. "Yes. I would. Do you have someone spying on me?"

She laughs, clear and joyful. And for just a moment, Galen can imagine a happier version of this grim young woman whose mind is so burdened with duty and loss.

"It's true," she says. "I would be a terrible spymaster if I didn't keep watch over everything that happens at Haven. But I do not have an agent spying on you specifically, Herald."

"Oh," he says. He's glad to hear it, but not sure whether to believe her. "No, I suppose it doesn't take much sleuthing. Where else would I want to send letters if not the place where I've lived for the past two and a half decades?"

"Certainly not to your parents. Or so I understand from several reports."

Galen nods. "True, we don't get along. But I'd rather not discuss it. And I've already taken enough of your time."

As he gets up from the table, she picks up his letters and tucks them into one of her pockets. 

"I will have to read them first. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," he says. "What kind of spymaster would you be if you didn't?"

* * *

"How is this even an argument!?" Galen throws up his hands as he looks across the war table at Cullen and Cassandra, who both stand with their arms folded, glaring at him.

"We go to Redcliffe," Galen says. " _Obviously_ , we go to Redcliffe."

Cullen's frown intensifies. "All I'm saying is it could be a trap."

"Yes," Cassandra agrees. "Although she invited us, I'm wary of Fiona's intentions. With that many rebel mages in one place, I would fear for our safety."

"Oh, you would?" Galen says. 

He can feel his temper flaring. Now that he's in his mid-thirties, it doesn't trigger as easily as it used to. He's grown milder and more good-natured with every passing year. But even now he has his moments when it just feels good to let go.

"You'd fear for our safety so much that you'd rather send me to Therinfal!?" Galen shakes his head, offers up a bitter chuckle. "You do realize that I'd have no way of defending myself against that many templars."

"Oh, I hardly think that's true," Cassandra says. "I've read Leliana's report about you. In fact, we all have."

She gestures to the three of them — herself, Leliana, and Cullen — all standing together on the same side of the table. And even though Leliana has voiced her support for visiting Redcliffe, Galen can't help but feel that they're all aligned against him. They look strong and menacing in the flickering shadows cast by the low-burning lamps.

"Oh?" he says. "And what's that supposed to mean?" 

"You wanted to be a templar. As a child, before your magic took hold, that was the life you would have chosen for yourself."

Galen laughs. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Don't pretend to be helpless against templars," Cassandra says. "We all know you could fight your way out of there with a bladed staff or a sword and shield. You are dangerous with magic and without it."

Galen sighs. He can feel his anger dissipating. Perhaps it's the unexpected reminder of his childhood hopes that leaves him feeling weary and sad. Whatever the reason, he's the lost will to keep up an argument. 

"Fine," he says. "Look, I don't want to fight about it. But I don't trust whatever they're doing at Therinfal. And I'd much rather talk to the Grand Enchanter in Redcliffe, who was at least polite when she invited us there."

"Yes," Leliana says, lending her immediate support. "I agree."

She looks pointedly at Cassandra, who frowns at first, but then nods.

"Alright. I'll go along with it for now. But if anything at all feels strange, we get out of there at once. Do you understand me?"

"More than that," Galen says. "I agree with you."

* * *

That night, he can't sleep.

He tosses and turns for nearly an hour before giving up entirely. He gets dressed and makes his way to the tavern, leaving his warmest cloak behind. The night air is frigid, but he knows the tavern will be warm and full of people. No sense sweating to death beneath heavy furs.

As he rounds the corner, he can hear the chords of a song being strummed and the steady, background noise of boisterous conversation.

The door opens before he can reach it. Someone else is leaving as he draws near. And it's one of the soldiers. Betta, he thinks, or Evetta? He's spoken to her at least once before, and though he tries his best to remember all the names of all the people, it's a continual struggle.

"My lord." She greets him and holds the door, bowing her head in deference as he enters.

He isn't used to such an overt display. It's true he's still technically a nobleman, but in the Ostwick Circle, they didn't tend to make a fuss about it. And when he did get special treatment among the mages, it wasn't this obvious.

"Hello again," he says. "And thank you." 

He smiles at her and in the warmth of the light spilling out of the tavern he can see how fiercely she blushes.

That suprises him. He always forgets that women find him attractive. Back at Ostwick, they all gave up trying to flirt with him long ago. Eventually, he supposes, they'll figure it out here as well. But until then, he'll try to be mindful. Even though it happens inadvertently, he never likes to raise romantic hopes he can't fulfill.

So he's wary, at first, when Sera spots him and beckons him over. 

"Hello there, all high and mighty," she says. "You here for a drink with the little people?"

"Sure," he says and pulls up a chair. 

"Everyone here's so busy badger, all the time. It's good to slow down."

Flissa, the bartender, must have noticed his arrival. A server appears with a pint of dark ale — his typical order — and when he turns to see who's sent it, Flissa nods at him and smiles.

He signals his thanks with a quick wave of acknowledgement and then turns back to Sera.

She smiles at him brightly, and all he can see is how young she is — barely twenty by his guess. Galen's never wanted to be a parent — doesn't properly understand the instinct, if he's honest. But he feels protective when he looks at this fiesty little person. And he catalogs the emotion, tentatively, as parental.

"So," he says, "how are you settling in?"

"Haven's strange," she says. "All swords and chantry. And I didn't take _you_ for the pious type."

Galen shrugs, and changes the subject.

"You up for a trip to the Hinterlands? Villagers need food. If you're any good at hunting with that bow of yours, I bet you could help them out."

"Maybe," she says. She bites her lip, considering. "So you mean, like, run around the countryside on my own while you and the others are off settling scores?"

"You don't have to," Galen says. "But if you wanted to get in on the interesting stuff eventually, I thought we could start with things like this. Help you earn Cassandra's trust."

"Pffft," she says, issuing one of her many rude noises as she hunches over and buries her nose in her own pint of ale. 

She slurps her drink loudly, and then stops, looks up, and says, "Yeah, alright. You can count me in."

Galen grins. He's pleased to have won her approval, however slight. It's such a small victory, but he needed it more than he realized.


	3. Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Field notes from the Hinterlands, infiltrating Redcliffe, and a fireside chat with Dorian.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Field notes, The Hinterlands 

_Arrived yesterday and veered away from Redcliffe to follow a lead on the Grey Wardens. Cassandra insisted and I agreed, in part, to keep the peace between us._

_We found, and recruited, Warden Blackwall. Grim man. Hard to talk to. I suppose that's how it is with the Wardens._

_First Enchanter Fiona was a Grey Warden. But then she left the order — perhaps on bad terms? I'm not sure whether bringing Blackwall with us to Redcliffe will confer an advantage or needlessly complicate things._

_Perhaps it's best to leave him out. I don't know anything about the man. Not yet. He'll be too much of a wild card for now, and we may only get one chance to do this right._

_Strange thing: One of the scouts found a magical object near the cliff's edge at the waterfall. It's a human skull affixed to a post — and the post carved with sigils. Harding says everyone's afraid of it and won't go near._

_I took Solas with me to investigate. He called it an ocularum, a device for seeing — but for seeing_ what _? There's no clear indication. We checked and found no hostile runes, nothing that would set off traps and injure people. It's cryptic, but harmless, as best we can tell. We'll look into it later._

_Redcliffe tomorrow._

* * *

**Redcliffe, Day 42**

Galen sits across the table from Alexius at the Gull and Lantern. As the older man frowns at him with barely contained disgust, Galen finds it strange that the first Tevinter magister he's ever met seems as shallow and evil as the caricatures he imagined in his youth.

For a split second, he smiles, remembering Slay the Magister — the game he devised with his friend Alana when they were ten-year-old apprentices. The premise was simple, one of them would wear a funny hat — typically a clean pair of smallclothes, recruited specifically for the role of "magister's cowl" — while the other, playing the hero, would attempt to "slay" the magister. Slaying involved firing off a mild stun spell, which they were absolutely not supposed to know how to do, let alone use against other people.

He knows he must have been a handful back then, difficult for his elders to manage. Between his illicit use of spells and his near-constant begging to be allowed to learn combat with swords "just like a templar," he's still not entirely sure how they put up with him. 

Alexius certainly can't seem to stand him, which to be honest, makes Galen feel proud. If anyone's going to despise him, it ought to be a mage from Tevinter. Especially a man like this one, who really does wear a ridiculous cowl. 

If the situation weren't so dire and unforeseen, Galen suspects he'd be mocking the man, firing off indecorous comments left and right. Instead, he manages to keep quiet and listen. There's no way he's going to ally with Alexius, but he's not yet ready to tip his hand.

* * *

As they walk down to the docks, Galen pulls Cassandra aside.

"I'd like a word with you."

They leave Varric and Solas to continue the business of chatting with villagers and mages, gently pressing them for whatever information they're willing to provide.

Cassandra follows him to a quiet niche away from the main path. 

"Listen," he says, "I know what I said back at Haven, about leaving at the first sign of trouble. And I know you'll disagree, but I don't think we can safely walk away–"

"Oh, we're not leaving." Cassandra interrupts him. Her voice is hard and certain. "I don't disagree with you at all."

Galen beckons her closer. It's not much of a hiding spot and he's worried that they're being watched. She seems to understand his concern immediately, because she moves towards him. The next thing she says is whispered so softly even Galen can barely hear.

"I can get us into the chantry without arousing suspicion. I know a few of the sisters here. It won't be strange if I ask for time undisturbed — so I can pray to the Maker for guidance and fortitude."

"So you think we should do what the note says?" he asks. "You're not worried it's a trap."

"Are you?"

"Yes," he says. "Because none of this makes sense, does it? Fiona's elvish. So are a dozen or more other mages here. There's no way they'd be safe in an alliance with Tevinter."

"Some kind of magical mind control, you suspect?"

"I don't know. Just be ready to dispel and suppress magic. Even mine if you have to."

"I understand."

A breeze rises up, ruffles Cassandra's hair. Bathed in the glow of the late morning sunlight, she looks as proud and handsome as any statue of Andraste. He can see why so many people chose to follow her when she first formed the Inquisition. 

The people do need a symbol.

* * *

Varric and Solas catch up with them at the edge of the docks.

"We found something," Varric says. "It's creepy and weird."

"You're going to want to see this," Solas adds.

He leads them to a shack near the furthest quay. 

"I felt a strange energy emanating from inside. So I asked Varric to pick the locks. What we found within is disturbing."

Galen follows them into the boarded-up shack, where at first, nothing looks amiss. As Galen's eyes adjust to the darkness, Solas brings them to a back room. Shelves line the walls, and every shelf is holding skulls. 

It's a gruesome find.

Solas points to a nearby table, strewn with letters, diagrams, and pages torn from books. They're written in Tevene, it appears, so Galen can't read them. But one letter is different, penned in the common tongue. There's just enough light, streaming between cracks in the wooden walls, that Galen can read it. He gets halfway through, then drops the letter.

He backs away quickly, nearly stumbling into Cassandra, who stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. 

"What is it?" She bends down to retrieve the letter at her feet.

"Oh, Maker, no," she whispers as she reads it herself. "I had heard rumors of Tranquil gone missing. But I never imagined that mages were killing them."

"Not mages," Solas says. "A Tevinter cult. And this explains the ocularum we found."

Galen hears them, but he's not really listening. He's stunned by the horror of what's happened here. 

His thoughts are reeling, spinning off back to Ostwick. The decision at the Circle was far from unanimous. If things had gone differently — a few more votes to join the rebellion — then many of his friends would be here in Redcliffe, under the influence of Alexius. And some would be gone forever — nothing left of them but skulls to line the wall.

The details in the letter describe the ritual slaughter. Galen read that much, at least, before it slipped from his hand. And now he can see the scene unfolding, a vivid image in his mind's eye, but instead of some unnamed stranger, the victim he imagines is Marcus — his serene expression faltering as he explains very logically to his captors why he does not wish to die–

Galen startles as Cassandra grabs his forearm and shakes his attention back to the present.

"I _said_ we should get out of here before anyone finds us." 

"Yes, you're right."

Once they're back outside, standing along the docks and looking out over the water, Cassandra touches his arm, more gently this time.

"I understand if you need a moment."

"I'm fine," he says, and looks away, casting his gaze across the water to Lake Calenhad's distant shore.

"You were thinking of your friend, weren't you?" 

"How did you–" he starts, and then cuts himself off without finishing. He already knows the answer. "Let me guess, it's in the report."

"I never meant to pry. We had to know we could trust you."

Galen shakes his head. He's always felt that he could get through anything, no matter the hardship, as long as he has friends beside him. But it's frustrating and difficult to bond with anyone amidst all this fear and secrecy. The one-sided sharing of information doesn't help.

He's been trying for weeks to build trust with Cassandra. She's not making it easy.

"We can have this conversation later," he says. "Right now we need to stop these people. So let's go see what's waiting for us in the chantry."

* * *

"Everything is in place," Cassandra says. "We do this tonight."

Galen stands beside her at the makeshift camp they've set up just outside Redcliffe's walls. Further down the road and away from the city, their forces are gathered, awaiting their orders. Cassandra has pulled every soldier out of the Crossroads encampments and redeployed them here on a moment's notice.

Tonight they'll move quickly with the help of this mage informant, Dorian, who might not be on their side at all.

It all seems too well-arranged for Galen's liking. If he were setting up a trap for himself, it would look an awful lot like this — with a handsome spy sent to win his trust and lure him to his capture.

He's going along with it, in part, because Cassandra refuses to back down. But also because of Felix, and that haunted look in the young man's eyes when he spoke of his father. Galen trusts that look, and doesn't think he's bluffing. 

But it's a coin toss. Who can say how the night will end? 

"We're going to make that old viper Alexius wish he'd never set foot in Ferelden," Cassandra says.

And Galen still isn't sure, but he really hopes she's right.

* * *

**Inquisition encampment, Outskirts of Redcliffe**

Galen, as Herald and mage, is given the job of reassuring Fiona and her people — their new allies — as they settle in for the night among the Inquisition forces. 

It's nearly an hour before he can steal a moment alone to catch his breath. The camp is quieting down, fires burn lower, and Galen suspects all the tents are now taken. So he looks around in search of the warmest fire — one that hasn't yet turned to embers. 

His magic is spent and even the prospect of a fire-stoking spell exhausts him.

As it happens, there is one fire blazing brighter than the rest. Dorian sits there, shivering a little, and leaning close to warm his hands.

Galen shakes his head, chastising himself in advance. There are so many reasons why he shouldn't go over there, but of course, he knows he's going to. 

Fortunately, some of his worst fears have been allayed. The expression on Alexius' face was genuine shock — followed swiftly by rage — to see Dorian standing in front of him. Galen no longer questions whether Dorian and Alexius might be working together in an elaborate scheme to infiltrate the Inquisition. He's convinced that's not true.

As he approaches the fire, Dorian greets him with a lopsided grin.

"All that exertion to save the world and afterwards they still don't let you rest?"

Galen eases his way down to sit, wincing a little at the soreness in his lower back. He landed hard on the flagstones at one point, when Alexius knocked him backwards. He'll have to go easy for a day or two.

"Rest? I'm not sure my colleagues understand what that is. As a concept."

He looks up, past the fire to where Cassandra gestures animatedly at a cowed-looking messenger. She's pointing down the road, no doubt sending him ahead to Haven despite the treacherousness of the paths after nightfall.

"Well fought, by the way," Dorian says. "You were good back there."

"Same to you. Nicely done with the amulet."

"I'd say it was fun, except no. Nothing about today was fun."

Galen chuckles. "Stranded in time does _not_ have its charms. Now there's some valuable information the Inquisition can use." 

A pleasant silence follows. Galen shuts his eyes and breathes deep to savor the smell of woodsmoke. There's a chill in the air, yes, but it's milder than Haven.

"That move you did," Dorian says. "One-two. Fire then barrier. I would've been done for without it. I couldn't get mine up in time."

At that, Galen's left speechless for a second. 

He remembers the move, of course. He'd been fast, athletic, and powerful — and yes — maybe showing off a little. And he appreciates the compliment, but he's not sure what to make of Dorian's particular turn of phrase. He can't tell if he's being flirted with or not.

"I'm too tired for words," Galen admits. "Everything sounds halfway to innuendo and I'm too slow for my witty retorts."

"You think that's bad," Dorian says. "I'm so tired I'm not even trying for innuendo. It's happening on its own."

Another comfortable silence follows. 

And then Dorian yawns. 

"I suppose it's too much to ask for a pillow?" 

Galen shakes his head. "I wouldn't even know where to find one."

"Ah, well. This will do."

Dorian unfastens the hood from his robes and rolls it into a sad approximation of a headrest. And then he lies down and shuts his eyes.

Galen starts to get up. He still needs to talk to Cassandra about their plans for tomorrow. But then he changes his mind, and settles back down for another few minutes. He takes out his field notebook from one of his pockets, and sets down his thoughts as best he can with a broken stick of graphite.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Hastily scrawled journal entry, Outskirts of Redcliffe 

_Cassandra doesn't look pleased._

_Vivienne's going to be furious with me._

_All the choices were wrong, and this day has been a ceaseless nightmare._

_With one good thing in it. Maybe._


	4. On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Journal entry from Haven and then narrative from four days before. Trevelyan's catching feelings.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Haven 

_Liminal spaces. That's the term that came to mind as I spoke with Solas. Those states or places that stand at the margins of other things and yet exist as a place of their own — or else, they almost do._

_To be in a liminal space is ... to be on the road — so much traveling from one important destination to the next. It's to be among people who are more than acquaintances, but not yet friends. To open rifts in the Fade and to close them. To make choices and then to wait, unsure of what the eventual consequences will be._

_Perhaps I was mistaken. I'm not standing across an impassable divide at all. Not there on the far shore looking back over open water at the life I used to lead. But instead, I'm in the midst of the crossing — in a place of becoming. On the verge of everything, or maybe nothing._

_It's too soon to tell._

_Someone should buy me a drink and tell me a funny story to make me laugh. That would shake me out of this absurd, philosophical whatever-it-is._

* * *

**En route to Haven, Days 43-45**

Four days is the time it takes to ride from Redcliffe to Haven, stopping each night to make camp.

The camps are what Galen looks forward to. With the fires built and the tents gone up, he feels safe. Being in the midst of this many mages reminds him, just a little, of life at Circle — except with the open sky above them. And so many stars. He's never bothered to study them before. So now when lies down on a warm woolen blanket, gazing upwards, he can only wonder which belong to constellations and which are just stars.

The first night on the road, he's doing exactly that when a familiar voice intrudes upon his solitude.

"Mind if I join you?"

It's Dorian. 

"You're welcome to," Galen says. 

His belly twinges with a pleasant case of nerves and he reminds himself to relax. It's the start of an infatuation, yes, and it's coming on stronger than usual. But that doesn't mean he has to do anything about it beyond observe his fluctuating state of emotion and wait for the spell to break. 

In Galen's experience, these infatuations always do end quickly. When he gets to know a man better, the idealized version disappears and he's left instead with the less pleasant reality. The only love that never broke was with Marcus, and that one got broken from the outside — by terrible, unavoidable circumstance. He doesn't have much faith left when it comes to affairs of the heart.

On the other hand, dalliances can be fun. But Galen's not looking for anything casual. Not now and maybe not ever again. He almost feels as though he's outgrown it. 

He looks up at Dorian, aware he's been silent for a while. 

"I didn't realize you'd caught up with us already." 

"Only just," Dorian says. 

Galen knows he lingered in Redcliffe long enough to say farewell to Felix and help make arrangements to send the young man home. It doesn't seem polite to pry, so Galen avoids asking questions about whatever Felix is — or was — to Dorian.

So instead he asks about Tevinter. And they end up talking for a long while about government and hierarchy, abuse and corruption. They get into it, a bit, about slavery — a topic where Galen refuses to concede or relent. But Dorian listens and reflects on it. And when they talk about alienages and abject poverty in Ferelden and the Free Marches, Galen, too, admits he has a lot to reflect on. 

They're hashing out the concept of freedom, as both a general and philosophical principle — and how it's invoked differently in the ethos of each of their homelands — when Galen suddenly realizes that this particular infatuation is not going to leave him alone anytime soon.

He likes Dorian in battle against demons and cultists. He likes Dorian in deep, complicated, intellectual conversations. And he's pretty sure he knows where else he'd like Dorian. 

But he absolutely cannot afford to indulge in someone like this. Close associations with a mage from Tevinter? There's no Fereldan nor Orlesian audience where that will gain him allies. He knows it. And if he dares to forget, he's certain Cassandra and Cullen and Vivienne will remind him. 

As well they should.

* * *

The second night on the road, Galen gets back to work. He checks in with Fiona, talks with many of the mages, and then meets with Cassandra to talk strategy.

"We're going to need more templars," she says. "We should go to Therinfal next."

And he knows she expects him to agree. 

"I need to think," he says.

There's a speech in his head. It's been there for a while, taking shape in the aftermath of what happened when everything really blew up between him and his parents.

Perhaps his talk with Dorian is what shook it loose, or helped it take on a new coherence.

But it's a speech for the war table, not this camp on the margins of the road. Cassandra needs to hear it along with Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana. So he asks Cassandra for a small respite — to postpone the conversation, not avoid it entirely. 

Instead, he sits down with her to eat his rations and chat about unrelated things. He asks about her younger days, growing up in Nevarra. In return, he tells her about his life before the Circle — as a Bann's son, the oldest of two children, and the member of a powerful family so devoted to the Chantry that it was hard to know where his family ended and the faith began.

* * *

Galen's fond of riding horses — he has been since he was small. He didn't get the chance to ride or travel during his long years at the Circle. But he regained his former aptitude almost immediately once he started riding again. And the chafing hasn't been a problem as much lately as it was on the way from Ostwick to the Conclave. He's grateful for that — and for the healing herbs that soothe away the minor wounds and sore muscles that come from travel and fighting.

His thoughts grow calm — a meditative stream of consciousness passing through him — and his spirits lift when he's traveling the country on horseback. The world is vast and beautiful, and he's missed so much of it for so long. He wants to take in everything. 

He rides alongside Solas on the third day. The elf points out ruins, barely visible from the road. They talk about the Fade, and dreams, and places where the Veil is thin. Liminal spaces. 

Galen has so many questions and yet Solas' answers always seem to open more lines of inquiry than they resolve. 

Galen appreciates it, though. 

He's been well educated all his life. In some fields of study, his knowledge goes deep. But in other areas, he's basically a child, running around with a rudimentary understanding, at best. And then there are the things he thought he knew — about the Fade, for example, and the nature of spirits — and yet one conversation with an apostate elf can make him start to question the truths he took as given.

* * *

On the third night at camp, he talks to Varric. 

They're only a few minutes into the conversation when the dwarf asks him, "Are you sure you want to keep talking about this? Most people aren't that interested in the details of the dwarven merchant's guild."

"To be honest," Galen says, "I started asking questions and then had no idea how to politely disengage. How do you steer a conversation from 'the tricky thing about competing with the Carta for export revenue' to 'good talk, Varric, see you later?' I was still trying to work that out."

Varric laughs.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Go get some rest, Herald." 

So Galen leaves him. 

He makes his way past the multitude of tents — enough to shelter the long column of their traveling party as everyone settles in for the evening. He nears his own campsite, but then changes course. Instead of trying so hard to avoid it, he decides to give in to the constant low-level temptation he's been feeling all day — and he veers away from his path in search of Dorian.

He spots the man sitting all by himself near one of the campfires — with a thick fur blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looks up as Galen approaches.

"Hello again," Dorian says. "Care to join me?"

Galen sits down beside him. "How've you been holding up?"

He's referring to the chill in the air, which Dorian appears to feel more intensely than everyone else. He hasn't had time yet to acclimate. 

But Dorian has a different set of complaints entirely.

"I've been having nothing but arguments with people all day long."

"I see," Galen says. "Well, I'm always good for an argument, if that's what you're after. I'm sure we can find enough controversial topics between us." 

Dorian laughs. 

"Now there's an offer," he says. "But no. I'd just like someone to talk to who won't take everything I say as some kind of personal attack."

"That is difficult," Galen says. "Do I need to apologize on behalf of my people? Filthy southern barbarians that we are — somehow we take it personally when you call us that. Who knew?" 

He grins, genuinely happy to be teasing a man who appreciates it, and who's clever enough to keep the repartee going.

If the eye contact between them lingers a little longer than it should, Galen's certainly not going to worry about it. It's nice to know he's not the only one looking. 

He reminds himself that he doesn't need to feel guilty about this. Having a joyful conversation with someone is not actually an indulgence that anyone can find fault with.


	5. Haven & Storm Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serious journal entry from Haven, flirtation at the Storm Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things I want to point out: 
> 
> House Trevelyan is indeed noted for their strong ties to the Chantry and the Templars. Still, in order for them to have the kind of overwhelming influence over those spheres that I'm playing with here, you might have to suspend disbelief a little. I'm doing it because I'm finding it interesting to reimagine the Ostwick Circle as a foil to Kirkwall — extreme, but opposite. 
> 
> (Honestly, I started imagining all this simply because you can't customize player character physique in Dragon Age. The human Inquisitor man is so much more muscular and built than I'd probably choose for a Circle-bound mage who wasn't regularly involved with some serious combat training. So I started coming up with a reason for that physique in Galen's story. Dude can fight.)

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Haven

_I need to gather my thoughts before I speak to the council this morning. Cassandra and Cullen are advocating that we go to Therinfal next, in hopes of adding templars to our ranks._

_I think it's a bad idea._

_And I have to make my point as well as I can. They won't expect me to object. I'm a loyalist mage, after all. I voted to stay with the Circle and I helped convince a handful of reluctant friends and colleagues to vote the same._

_But Cassandra and Cullen don't know everything — not about me and not about the place where I'm from._

_Ostwick is a model circle, everyone's quick to agree. We don't have egregious abuses by templars. Those horrifying stories that the Seekers investigate? Those simply don't happen with us. We also don't have abominations springing up left and right._

_But why should that be so? What makes us different?_

_I think I understand it now — in ways I couldn't quite make sense of before._

_It's an answer that begins with nepotism and ends, however improbably, with something that's beautifully broken._

_It goes like this._

_The Trevelyans have been sending their second sons to the templars for generations. More than half the Order in Ostwick is part of my family — cousins, uncles, aunts, and more distant relatives. It was always expected that my younger brother would pledge himself, as well. But I was the one who really wanted to join. And my father, who loved me, didn't have the heart to tell his oldest boy the truth. I could never join the templars, because I had to be the heir._

_I was ten-years-old when my magic emerged. From the way they took it, you'd think it was the worst thing that had ever happened to my parents. They already disliked magic immensely. And now it was tearing apart their perfect family._

_They were supposed to give me up: Cut all ties, never speak to me again except through letters. And they did keep their distance. Because of that, it was a long time before I realized how closely they still kept watch — and began to interfere on my behalf._

_At the Circle, I was allowed to continue the combat training I'd begun at an early age — now learning side-by-side with templar recruits — because my father insisted. He used his influence, his connections, and sometimes even bribes._

_I never questioned it. What did I know of Circle restrictions and distance requirements? Mages became my friends and so did templars. It all seemed normal to me._

_Behind the scenes, my family was pulling strings to get their way. More than that, they were trying to get me back to the way I used to be. They hired scholars in far away places to research the Rite of Tranquility. They wondered, could there be a way to sever magic without the personality-altering effects that come with it? They hired adventurers, as well, sending them to the Deep Roads to investigate the dwarven immunity to magic. Perhaps the ancient thaigs held secrets that could help cleanse and purify me from the stain of magic._

_All they found were dead ends, but not for lack of searching._

_Back at the Circle, however; something unusual was happening. An entire young cohort of templars were spending time with an apprentice mage as if he were their equal instead of their ward. For those templars, mages stopped being a category of frightening other, and they referred to my fellow apprentices as simply "Galen's friends."_

_My special treatment, born of nepotism and privilege, was like the crack that grew until it tore down the wall entire._

_Proper standards of distance and detachment became impossible to enforce. Mages and templars in the younger generation all started talking to each other. Sharing stories, becoming friends. The elders who disapproved were outnumbered by those who counted my father as a friend and benefactor._

_The Seekers might have looked into it at some point, if they hadn't been so busy already — tracking down templars in other places for inflicting such horrible abuse._

_For the young templars at Ostwick, abuses like that were both unconscionable and entirely preventable. They began to stand up to their own mentors, arguing back against whomever dared to suggest that mages weren't people deserving respect._

_In the end, it was simple. We mattered to them; they mattered to us. Tensions between us deescalated further when it turned out that demons couldn't manipulate us as easily. They prey on the desperate — and most of us simply weren't._

_So, you see, it's not that we didn't want to break the Circle and tear it to pieces. It's just that we've already been breaking it for years. In our own way._

_And so that's why I don't wish to recruit anyone from Therinfal. I don't want those particular templars coming anywhere near these particular mages. I fear it would mean forcing our new allies to live in proximity with their former abusers. That cannot happen here._

_Instead, I want us to reach out to Alec, my templar cousin at Ostwick, to ask him to join us, and bring along a few others I know and trust._

_If we're to have templars here — which I know we must — then I want it done my own way._

* * *

**Haven, Day 49**

It's a relief to be traveling, even though Galen has the distinct sense he's being sent away so the rest of the Inquisition council has time to discuss their templar strategy without him. He's not sure what sort of compromises he'll have to make when he returns, but he's satisfied with the terms they've agreed to thus far. 

Therinfal is out. Cullen will make arrangements to recruit a few templars he knows and can personally vouch for. Writing to Ostick is still on the table, but no firm promises yet.

Galen's heading off to the Storm Coast, ostensibly to close rifts, negotiate with the Blades of Hessarian, search for any signs of the Grey Wardens, and then rendezvous on the coast with a mercenary company that Josephine has arranged to hire. The other purpose is probably just to get rid of him for a while.

Cassandra insists that he take Sera, Blackwall, and Dorian with him. She has her reasons for all three: Blackwall, to help search for the wardens; Dorian, to get him away from Haven while Leliana investigates his past more thoroughly.

And Sera, because, as Cassandra puts it, "You're the one who recruited her, Herald. Maker's Mercy, take her with you!"

It's an odd mix of traveling companions. Galen feels well at ease with both Sera and Dorian, but neither of them have yet spoken to the other. So the expedition begins outside the stables with an awkward round of introductions.

"Ugh, not another mage," Sera says.

"It's even worse than that," Dorian assures her. "I'm from Tevinter."

She replies with a rude hand gesture, and says, "No, thank you."

Galen braces for the impact whatever of witty comeback Dorian has in mind. But to Galen's great relief, he responds to her bad manners with humor rather than insults. 

"Hah! 'No, thank you!'" he says, then looks at Galen, and adds, "It's a good thing hers isn't the 'yes, please' I'm looking for."

"Ooh, saucy," Sera says. "I like _that_."

Galen lets the moment pass without comment. 

Their fast-paced banter gives him a good sense of what he's in for these next several days: flirtation and suggestive wordplay. He'll have to decide how much, and how openly, he's willing to participate.

But he won't have to figure it out right away. Blackwall shows up, and his gruff demeanor quells the light-hearted mood.

As they mount up and set out, Galen immediately regrets not having taken more time to get to know the Grey Warden. Blackwall is still a complete stranger to him. But they'll have six long days of riding ahead of them before they arrive at the Storm Coast. Time enough to get to know the man better.

* * *

**En route to Storm Coast, Day 51**

Galen loves a good story, with tales of adventure being the best by far. So it's disappointing that Blackwall keeps dodging his questions. 

"So what you're saying is, there's nothing exciting at all about being a Grey Warden? Not even one heroic tale of traveling the countryside and slaying darkspawn with fellow wardens at your side?"

"We travel the countryside. We slay darkspawn. What else is there to say about it?"

Galen can't believe what he's hearing. 

"Prowess in battle? Daring escapes from certain death? Surviving against overwhelming odds thanks to the deep and lasting bonds of fellowship you've forged with your comrades-in-arms?"

"If you wanted stories like that, you should've brought the dwarf along. Not me."

"I'll have to remember that next time," Galen says. 

Not that he had any say in choosing his companions for this expedition. Still, he can't complain. 

After three days on the road, Sera and Blackwall are warming up to each other. They spend the rest of the afternoon riding side-by-side, grousing about the nobility. Sera, from time to time, peppers in some disparaging remarks about mages. 

"I think we're being insulted by the commonfolk," Dorian says, pretending to be scandalized. 

"A shocking lack of gratitude," Galen replies, playing along. 

He finds he doesn't actually care what Sera and Blackwall are going on about. They're so engrossed in their own conversation that it gives him the pleasant chance to talk and laugh with Dorian, uninterrupted, all afternoon.

* * *

**Storm Coast, Days 55-58**

"So I put on this amulet and — then what? — the Blades of Hessarian lay down their weapons and welcome me with open arms?" Skeptical of that plan, Galen raises an eyebrow. 

"Come on," he says. "It can't actually be that easy."

"Sounds like bollocks to me, too," says the requisitions officer, who arrived at the base camp a week ago as part of the forward scouting team. "But I guess it's worth a try?"

Behind them, Blackwall chuckles. "Prepare for a fight, then," he says. "Good to know."

* * *

Far exceeding Galen's expectations, the amulet does its job. It sees them safely into the Blades' compound for a chance to parlay with the man in charge. 

The talks break down almost immediately. Regardless of symbolic jewelry, the leader of the Blades clearly has no intention of striking up an alliance.

Instead, with his weapon drawn, the man leaps forward. Galen holds his ground until the last second when he dodges, spinning out of the way. He feels the protective spark of Dorian's barrier spell, surrounding him as he moves. 

It's an unexpected boon — a measure of safety that gives him the chance to change tactics. Rather than turn to face his opponent with all due haste, Galen adds a flourish. He swings his staff in a graceful arc, gaining momentum, until it erupts with his magic, channeled into a powerful follow through. He unleashes a blast of ice that hits its mark. 

The clan leader staggers, falls to his knees, and after that, he doesn't stand a chance. Sera's bow is drawn, arrow knocked, and quick-as-you-please, she aims and lets go. It finishes him off with grisly accuracy. 

Across the yard, the dead man's former underlings set their weapons down in surrender. Blackwall, who'd been about to engage with two or three of them at once, instead sheathes his sword and relaxes his stance. 

Galen watches all this, and then looks to Dorian, whose right hand still sparkles with an uncast lightning spell. It dissipates harmlessly as he relaxes his fingers. 

Foremost in Galen's mind is how good it feels to start working together more efficiently. The fact that their teamwork has been in service of killing a man weighs less heavily on his conscience than it would have a few weeks ago.

* * *

With the Blades of Hessarian converted from enemy to strangely feral ally, the region is safer to traverse in search of rifts and wardens. They travel on foot. The high bluffs and steep, narrow pathways make it difficult for horses. Galen's sure they could manage the uphills, but he fears they'd be stranded or injured on the way down.

Walking takes effort. After the second big climb of the day, they stop for a filling, though not particularly satisfying, lunch of field rations. 

"For a view like this, it's almost worth the climb," Galen says. 

He looks out over the water, which heaves against the rocks at the base of the cliff far below. The sea is dark — so deep a blue it's almost black — but where it crashes, it churns up spray. It's almost dizzying to stand so high above it. 

It stirs up emotions Galen's not sure how to name or what to do with. He feels exposed and vulnerable — like a small creature at the cusp of something vast and dangerous. And yet it shivers through him, this feeling of awestruck immensity, in a way that's almost a pleasure.

Sera's voice, rising to a shout, is what recalls him.

"Another rift down there!"

She stands closer to the cliff's edge, and points to a patch of sandy shore beyond the rocks.

"I see it," Galen says. "We'd better get down there."

Blackwall consults the map. They found it stashed in a Grey Warden's satchel, hidden near an abandoned campsite. A dead drop perhaps — meant for other wardens to find. It maps the coast, marking the best paths up and down each ridge. It's proved useful so far.

The closest way down is through a nearby cave. Its upper entrance is marked on the map, but difficult to locate. Blackwall finally spots it. On a ledge above them, he sees an old doorway carved into the basalt of the cliffside. He's the first one up and through, followed by Sera. 

Galen's quick on their heels. He's about to step through the doorway, when a fine spray of sand and crushed rock spills down from the cave's low ceiling. He jumps back, colliding with Dorian behind him, just in time to avoid being crushed by a massive slab of rock, which blocks the entrance when it falls.

"Shit," he says. He sits on the ground, where he landed hard. 

Dorian, still standing upright, extends a hand to help him up.

"You two alright out there?" Sera calls out to them, her voice muffled behind the blocked doorway.

"Don't shout." Blackwall chides her at a slightly lesser volume. "You want to bring the rest of it down on top of us?"

"'Course not!"

"Then stop shouting."

"Hey, Sera?" Galen says, interrupting their shouting match. "We're fine out here. How about you? Can you still make it down through the tunnels?"

"Not sure," she says. "There's ladders down. Can't see them now. It's too much dark."

"Can you start a flame and look?"

"Nah, no kit," she says. "Hey, warden, where's your firestarter?"

"Haven't got it," Blackwall says. "Didn't think I'd need it, did I? Pair of mages with us."

"Impeccable logic," Dorian says. "Until you're trapped in a dark cave on your own."

Galen steps closer to the cave's blocked entrance, inspecting the damage. He runs his fingers along the rock that so nearly made his day a lot shorter.

"Think we can lift it?"

"Easily," Dorian confirms.

They spend the next several minutes working out the logistics required to magically elevate the rock and then shift it to the left, away from the door, without crushing either Sera or Blackwall on the other side.

The spell is easier with two mages powering it, so Galen doesn't expect it to take long. But he also doesn't expect more of the cave, further in, to start collapsing as soon as they try to move the fallen slab.

Sera calls out in warning and they both ease off the spell, setting the boulder down again — which seems to stop any further collapse.

"Alright, new plan," Galen says, after again confirming with Sera and Blackwall that neither of them are hurt. "We'll find another path down and clear out the cave from below. Just wait for us. We'll get you out of there."

The cliff juts far into the water, so they can't go back the way they came. There's no safe passage along the beach. 

Guided only by Galen's best guess — due to the wardens' map still being in Blackwall's keeping — they choose a path across the upper meadow, away from the cliff's edge. It brings them higher up the ridge before they connect to a path going down. It's steep and treacherous, so they'll have to watch their footing. But Galen thinks they can make it down unscathed.

"Should I be flattered?" Dorian asks. "You've gone to an _awful_ lot of trouble to get me alone with you."

Galen grins at him. 

"Right, yes. The wilderness cave-ins always do take planning. But I find I like the challenge."

"Watch your step." Dorian changes the subject by pointing out a loose rock on the path ahead.

"Thanks," says Galen, stepping gingerly past it.

It's a comfortable pattern they're falling into. The inital flirtation, an amused reply, and then a deliberate return to pleasant collegiality. It's like testing the waters, Galen thinks. _How far will he let me take this? How far do I even want to go?_ And they're both trying simultaneously to work out the answers. 

It's not a bad dynamic, all things considered. It allows for indulgence in flirtation and fantasy, without getting in the way of the work they're doing. The only problem is what comes next. At a certain point — weeks or months from now — if things keep going well between them, Galen knows he'll want more. 

The fantasies, thus far, have been relatively unintrusive. But they're already starting to intensify. In a month or two, they could become distracting. Or even worse, frustrating. 

But he can't worry about it now. They've reached the next valley and they're not far from that newly opened rift. They'll need to seal it first and then clear the cave.

* * *

The cave is full to bursting with giant spiders. And bursting, Galen notes, is exactly what happens to those spiders when a pair of mages with lightning at their fingertips gets surrounded and nearly overwhelmed.

Spider goo is suddenly everywhere — covering his boots and robes, stuck in his hair, and dripping until it crusts in his eyebrows as it dries. Dorian has fared no better. By the time they've lit the dredges of the oil in the cave's ancient sconces, and then helped Sera and Blackwall safely down the ladders, both mages are starting to reek.

When they emerge into the afternoon sunlight, Blackwall takes one look at Dorian and chortles.

"And now who's the one who needs bathing?"

"Definitely still you," Dorian says, but his heart's not in it. He doesn't sound confident at all.

"And if you could only see the sorry state of your pompous mustache!" Blackwall laughs to the point of tears, then wipes his eyes.

Sera, meanwhile, wrinkles her nose and steps out of the way as Galen walks towards her.

"Smells like rancid," she says.

"Tastes worse," Galen confirms.

He spits into the sand and then simply keeps walking. He heads away from the beach and back up the path. A shallow stream runs alongside it, and he's searching for a place where it's deep enough to wade — and then submerse himself. 

Once he's found a spot, Dorian splashes into the water after him. What follows is as far from a bathing-together fantasy as Galen can imagine. The surrounding water turns mud-yellow, and it starts to stink so badly they have trudge further upstream to get away from it.

* * *

Much later, when they're both wearing fresh robes — gifted to them by the Blades of Hessarian — Galen's spirits begin to revive. 

"I think I can still smell it my hair," he says. "But I might be hallucinating odors. Do you think that stuff's poisonous?"

Dorian sits beside him near the fire pit in the Hessarian's walled encampment. 

"Had I known about the spider caves in advance, I might not have signed up for your Inquisition. I can see why you don't include any of this in your recruitment materials."

Galen smiles and shakes his head. He looks across the fire at Dorian. The man is beautiful — the striking contours of his face stand out in the heavy shadows cast by the firelight. What Galen really wants is to get up, go over there, and kiss this man who keeps drawing forth his laughter.

"The spiders were bad, I'll give you that. But closing that rift was fun."

"Yes, I thought so, too," Dorian says. "We fight well together."

"I know. I like killing things with you," Galen says, and then frowns. "Oh, Maker, that sounds horrific. It was better in my head."

Not long after that, a wave of exhaustion hits him, and Galen turns in for the night.

"Goodnight, Trevelyan."

The way Dorian says his name — softly, with a gentle warmth — it's almost too much. For the second time, Galen fights back the urge to go over and kiss him.

* * *

Galen has his doubts about their final task, but he trusts Josephine and Leliana to know what they're doing. So after a brief meeting with the Iron Bull, he officially welcomes the Chargers to the Inquisition. 

The mercenaries have only just disembarked. They'll need a meal and a short rest before they're ready to travel. That gives Galen another few hours to traipse around the nearest ridge, helping Blackwall search for additional signs of the Grey Wardens.

"Alright," he says to his companions. "Let's head back up the hill and see what we can find."

But as soon as they've moved out of earshot of the Chargers, Dorian pulls him aside and confronts him.

"You know what they do to mages, yes?" 

_Of course_ , Galen thinks, _I ought to have seen this coming._

"I know how this looks..."

Dorian's upper lip twitches slightly — a subtle tell that reveals his disdain. 

Galen glances at their two companions.

On the path behind them, Blackwall and Sera have stopped. The warden seems bored, or annoyed perhaps, with his arms crossed in front of him. Sera fidgets, can't keep still. Galen knows how uneasy she gets around magic. She can't be happy about two mages squaring off like this, one of them clearly spoiling for a fight.

When he looks back at Dorian, he sees hurt and betrayal there — and an attempt to hide those emotions beneath an air of superiority and cruel belligerence.

Though this is the first time it's being directed at him personally, Galen's seen this side of Dorian already — it was on full display when they confronted Alexius together. 

It's almost a relief to experience it now. 

Galen's terribly curious to see how this goes — an argument with Dorian and its aftermath. He suspects it will tell him a lot about whether the attraction he feels is worth pursuing further.

"Dorian, yes. I know what they do to mages. But I'm not worried about that with him."

"And why not?" He doesn't sound curious, only accusatory.

"Because they have a mage in their company," Galen says.

At that, Dorian's whole expression changes. 

"They– what?" 

For a few blank seconds, he simply stands there, as though unable to piece together the information he's been given. When he again looks at Galen, the bitterness in his eyes has been replaced with something else — relief, perhaps, or hope? He seems perplexed — enough that he looks back towards the shore.

There, the Chargers are consulting each other as they divvy up tasks. The elf with the high cheekbones and Dalish tattoos is holding onto a mage's staff, using it to point out a location further up the beach — no doubt suggesting a campsite.

"You're sure that's a mage?" Dorian says. "It could be an elf who killed a mage and took their staff."

Galen reaches into his pocket, takes out a folded set of orders, and hands them to Dorian.

"Other side of the page," Galen says, as Dorian unfolds it.

Written there, in Josephine's elegant script, is a full list of mercenaries in the Iron Bull's company. It provides their names and their talents. Beneath the moniker "Dalish," the words "elemental mage" are written.

"Ah," Dorian says. "What do you know, they do have a mage in their company."

He refolds the page and hands it back to Galen. 

"You might have told me this first." 

It's a gentle chiding. His voice has lost any hint of aggression. Dorian almost sounds contrite.

"I had other things on my mind," Galen says. "I'm sorry to have worried you."

"Worried? Not at all. Outraged enough to torch you with a stray fireball? Oh, absolutely."

"Thanks for not doing that."

Dorian is about to reply, when Sera interrupts.

"Ughh. This is boring. Kiss and make up already, and let's keep moving!"

Galen gives her a look, more relieved than anything. "Thanks for that, Sera. I always treasure your insights." 

"Plenty more where that came from."

"How lucky for all of us," Dorian says, adding a little more good-natured sarcasm to the mix.

Before they head out, Galen looks at him. And this time, when the eye contact holds between them, it feels deeper and more interesting than it has before.


	6. The Breach, Haven, & After

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Haven 

_We arrived back safely a few days ago._

_Today we're going to close the giant rift in the sky — or at least make the attempt. Cassandra thinks we're ready._

_Dorian's curious about the Breach, wants to see it up close._

_I spent the better part of yesterday evening having drinks with him at the tavern. He took a closer look at the mark on my hand. Not for the first time — I've let him inspect it before._

_But it was different last night. He held my hand and ran his thumbs across my palm. And we both pretended very earnestly that he was primarily interested in the mark._

_If I were my younger self, I'd have asked him to bed with me already. Instead it feels better not to._

_That's strange, I know._

_But, honestly, everything here is overwhelming. I keep moving from one task to the next, trying to avoid the more difficult feelings of doubt and despair. It's hard to keep my spirits up when I'm so far removed from my home, my friends, and my old routine._

_Forging new friendships, little by little, is the one thing that gives me much hope right now._

_That slow steady pace of a friendship unfolding — it sustains me. I don't want to force any of these new connections to change too quickly into something they aren't yet ready to be. And that's how it feels with Dorian. Something's there, between us — maybe something important — but I'll just have to wait and see what time can tell._

* * *

**Haven, Day 68**

The Breach is closed and the celebrating begins before they've even made it back to Haven. Cheering, singing, and boisterous laughter breaks out from every group of mages and soldiers around him.

Even Cassandra has traded her typically stern expression for a joyful one.

"You were magnificent, Herald!"

She claps Galen hard on the shoulder and he can't help but tease her for the uncharacteristic display.

"Is that a smile?" Galen says. "I didn't think you had it in you!"

"Today I do," she says. 

And soon, others draw near to give their own hearty thanks for Galen's role in this victory. 

On the road back to Haven, he hardly has time to collect his thoughts. The mages who haven't yet thanked him are crowding around as they walk, waiting for their chance to clasp his hand and exchange a friendly word with the Herald.

He doesn't mind their exuberance. It's not everyday that a tear in the sky gets mended.

People need the chance to express themselves. To see that their thoughts and feelings have been heard. To believe that they matter. Galen knows all this. So he takes the time to greet each person and thank them for their own hard work. 

He's more than halfway to Haven before the last grateful ally takes their leave and drifts off towards friends of their own.

As soon as he's alone, Madame Vivienne makes her way to his side.

"You've made a favorable impression on all of them," she says. "Well done."

"I'm just glad it worked," he admits.

"As am I. But it's not the end of our work here. And tomorrow I'd like a word with you, provided you can spare the time."

He looks at her more attentively, trying to read her expression and guess at her purpose. Since the first day they met, she's been nothing but gracious towards him. 

"You know I always have time for you, First Enchanter."

"Excellent," she says. 

He wonders now how much of her respect was given to him only as Trevelyan the Loyalist mage. Now that he's spoken his mind about Ostwick — complicating and qualifying that Loyalist image — he wonders, will she turn harsh and cold? He's heard she can be quite formidable, this Madame de Fer.

And yet, if he's not mistaken, she wears a subtle smile. It's only there for a second — as though it were unplanned — something real and not a masquerade. Perhaps she's pondering some private idea that pleases her, and has nothing to do with him.

Galen wants to ask for more information, but with Vivienne, he's found it best to be judicious. He'll only waste his breath by asking questions she isn't ready to answer. Tomorrow, when they meet, she'll share whatever's on her mind — more politics, most likely. More deciding the future of the Chantry and the Circle. 

Exhausting topics. 

As they pass through Haven's gates, Vivienne bids him good evening and takes her leave. For a moment, Galen feels lost in the crowd. 

Everywhere people are moving past him to gather in small groups near their lodges and tents. Soon, he hopes, the food and drink will appear. He could use a hearty meal, a few pints of ale, and the pleasure of a certain Tevinter mage's company for another of their delightful, topic-sprawling conversations.

He's not left standing alone for long, but it isn't Dorian who approaches him next. 

"So _that's_ the thing you can do with your hand," the Iron Bull says, in place of a more standard greeting.

Galen gazes up at him. He's not the first qunari that Galen's ever seen, but he is, by far, the largest.

"Your archer, Sera, was trying to explain it to me. But it's one of those things you kind of have to see for yourself," Bull says. "So, how does it work?"

"Honestly?" Galen says, "I'm not really sure."

"Magic you're not sure about? That doesn't sound good."

"I know. I try not to think about it."

"Think about what?" Cullen appears on Galen's other side, jumping into the conversation without preamble.

The events of the day seem to have broken down boundaries of reserve and hesitancy among many who normally keep to themselves. And Galen thinks it's good to see the commander like this — joining in, for once.

"The green magic hand," Galen says, holding it up and waving his fingers. "It's so hard to work with. Clashes with all of my outfits. Real headache if I think about it too much."

The Iron Bull chuckles.

"Funny you should say so," Cullen says. "I hear Vivienne is recruiting a few of her tailors to work on your look."

Galen tilts his head, uncertain, and tries to read the man's expression. Cullen appears to be completely serious. Though it can't hurt to make sure.

"I can't tell if you're joking," Galen says.

"I'm not. I had to hear all about it from Josephine, so now I'm passing along the favor and telling you."

"What's wrong with my look?"

"I don't know– Josephine!" Cullens shouts across the yard and beckons to the ambassador. 

She waves back, and then makes her way over. 

Once she's reached his side, Cullen asks, "What was it Vivienne said about Trevelyan?"

"That he is not as subtle as he thinks he is."

At this, Galen laughs. "Sounds about right."

"No, not that," Cullen says. "The other thing. About his clothing."

"She says she wants less 'affable woodland rogue' and more 'illustrious member of the highest nobility.'"

"Hah! Well, fuck that!" Galen says, louder than he intends. 

(It's not lost on him that Dorian — talking with Solas nearby — turns to look at the sound of his expletive.)

But Galen is laughing along with the others. It's good to be here. He _likes_ these people — can see himself becoming real friends with all of them. 

And he's a bit relieved, as well. He now suspects that Vivienne's ominously secret meeting invitation has nothing to do with serious topics. She might simply have concerns about the quality of his leather and fabrics. 

He shakes his head. "Of all the stupid things to worry about–"

But he never completes that thought, because all of a sudden, they're under attack.

* * *

Galen wakes up in the snow and, at first, he doesn't understand what's happened. His head aches, his body is sore, and the aftertaste of lyrium lingers in his mouth. 

He had to take a potion, then? 

He must have needed a lot of mana very quickly, but he can't recall why. 

He tries to sit up, but falls over again when his right side is seized by a sharp, tearing pain. 

An image appears in his mind's eye and he's not sure if it's part of a dream or else a real memory.

* * *

_A strange boy with haunting eyes and a wide-brimmed hat is speaking to them in the chantry. He uses convoluted words and mixed metaphors, but he's telling them that the Elder One is here._

* * *

It's a memory. Galen's sure it really happened, but he can only look back in bits and pieces. Everything is jumbled up, so that nothing makes sense. 

He tries to sit up again, and he manages this time, though he winces through the pain. He searches his pockets for a potion to take the edge off. But all he finds is an empty lyrium bottle.

* * *

_Dorian hands him the potion._

_They're both beaten and bloody, but they find a moment of respite near the trebuchet._

_"Not the pleasant evening I had in mind," Dorian says. "And not the drink I planned to buy you."_

_The taste of lyrium is sharp on his tongue. As he swallows it down, he feels his spent mana reviving._

_"Thanks," Galen says. He can hear his own voice slurring from the concussive force of whatever nightmare creature slammed him to the ground before he killed it._

_"Needed that, did you?" Dorian says. His beautiful nose is bleeding._

_"Needed it," Galen confirms. "Thought I'd have to do this next wave with a sword."_

_And Dorian laughs, thinks he's joking — not realizing that was, in fact, Galen's actual plan._

* * *

He sits for a while, preparing himself mentally for the next task ahead: standing up and walking. He knows he has to move if he wants to stay alive.

But he needs a moment first. So he sits, rests, and as he does so, he remembers more.

Haven is empty now, and people are dead.

Flissa, the bartender, and Quartermaster Threnn. Galen remembers them screaming. He saw from a distance, couldn't reach them in time.

* * *

_They race from one fire to the next, trying to save who they can before being driven back to regroup in the chantry._

_In the end, their defensive strategy is nothing. Not even half a plan. Just a desperate ploy in hopes that a few of their number can make it out alive._

_He needs volunteers — a small team to help him fire the fucking trebuchet at the side of the mountain._

_Cassandra, Blackwall, and the Iron Bull step forward._

_And then Dorian's hand is on his shoulder._

_"I'm coming with you, Trevelyan. Let's try not to get ourselves killed."_

* * *

Standing up is the worst part. He's pretty sure a rib is broken somewhere on his right side. But once he's up and walking, it's easier to push through the pain. 

He looks around, and sees that he must have fallen clean through to the passages beneath the chantry. 

This is the escape route. 

If all has gone well, the others have used it and are safely away. All Galen has to do now is move faster than their slowest person — and he can catch up.

* * *

_Galen shouts at them to go. He doesn't want them to stay and die if their lives can be saved by retreating. He shouts and insists until they listen — until even Cassandra gives in._

_But before he leaves, Dorian hands him one last lyrium potion._

_"Don't die," he says._

_And Galen shakes his head. "I might."_

_And that's it. There's no time left — which is fine, really. What would he even say?_

_He ought to ask Josephine, he thinks, if he ever sees her again. Are there appropriate parting words for a person he's recently met, but feels overly fond of, nevertheless? What's the etiquette here?_

_Doesn't matter._

_He's all alone, and the Elder One is coming._

* * *

Galen's feet have gone numb and the snow on his face feels sharp, somehow, as if it's slicing through the skin. He's not sure if he sees a camp ahead or if he's caught in the throes of hypothermia and experiencing hallucinations.

But then he hears voices, carried on the wind towards him. And one of them sounds like Cassandra.

His vision goes dark.

When he opens his eyes, he's lying down on a blanket in the middle of an Inquisition camp. It's warmer here, but he can't stop shivering, and the healers refuse to let him sleep. Instead they give him foul-tasting potions. 

A healer-mage drinks lyrium to fuel a spell, so he knows it must be serious. It shouldn't take that much power to mend a fractured rib. And Revered Mother Giselle is nearby — it doesn't bode well for him if they've called in the Chantry.

But when the healer's work is done, he's still alive. And he finds he can sit up with far less pain. His headache is gone, but he's still disoriented when the singing starts, rising up all around him. 

_Be quiet_ , he thinks, _Corypheus will hear you!_

Because he remembers it now — the Elder One's name.

* * *

_Corypheus toys with Galen before the kill — stalking forward, taking hold of him, and tossing him to the ground. He has that luxury, a being too powerful for any human to destroy. And yet, by luck or by the hidden hand of the Maker — who can truly say which? — Galen steals back his own life from the one who would take it. Just barely, he reaches the trebuchet, unleashes an avalanche, and manages not to die._

* * *

All of the people are singing. 

They are tired, hungry, frightened, and yet hopeful, somehow. They gather nearby and gaze at Galen as though he's a god to be worshipped. 

It's a misplaced reverence — he's sure of it — but he can't stop them from believing what they will.

He stands up and looks around him — sees Cassandra there, among the people, looking more determined than ever. Varric and Cullen stand with her. He can see other friends, as well.

It's only when the crowd begins to disperse that he catches sight of Dorian, who smiles at him and lifts his hand in a subdued wave.


	7. Skyhold (Drinks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat with Varric. Drinking with Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter includes alcohol use/excessive drinking. (And when I wrote this chapter I really thought the closet door was a second exit from the Inquisitor's quarters. Hence the weirdness with Varric leaving.)

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Letters from Haven to the Ostwick Circle

_Dear Alec,_

_I need a half dozen templars I can trust. Instructions enclosed for how to make contact with our agents if you're willing to bring the best among our friends and join us._

_I've enclosed a letter also for the Knight Commander. Give it to him if you plan to leave._

_Yours,_

_Galen_

* * *

_Dear Alana,_

_I won't be back at Ostwick anytime soon, and the Circle shouldn't continue to keep my quarters as if they were still mine. You can have any of my remaining belongings that you like, few that they are, and give away the rest._

_With one exception._

_In the small chest beneath the bed I left the copper ring that Marcus gave me, so many years ago. Its only value is sentimental, so please hold onto it for me. You can return it to me when I see you next. I'm not sure when that will be, but it comforts me to know that you're safely far from here._

_Yours,_

_Galen_

* * *

_Hello Marcus,_

_I was injured recently, but it's nothing serious. I've been resting for a few days on healer's orders. I should be well again in no time._

_If you were here, I would show you the herb garden in one of the courtyards. The herbalists are starting to grow rare plants from all over Ferelden and Orlais. You would know all their names and find a good purpose for all of them._

_Please don't overthink this or mistake it for an invitation. It is not one. You are well suited to stay where you are, doing your best work at Ostwick. Talk to Alana if you don't understand. She can explain it, like always._

_May you be well,_

_Galen_

* * *

**Skyhold, Day 78**

Galen's room is awash in midmorning sunlight, beautifully refracted through the cut glass windows. At the sound of a knock at the door, Galen looks up from his letters. He calls out for his guest to enter.

It's Varric, looking better groomed and less scruffy than he has in days. As he walks in, he looks up at the windows and then turns around, taking in the height and breadth of the place. 

"This is your bedroom!? Well, shit. Ruffles said it was extravagant, but this is even more enormous than I imagined."

Galen glances around his quarters rather sheepishly. He's been given a full tour of Skyhold already, so he knows that no other bedroom can compare. It feels like a misplaced gift, but he's doing his best to accept it gracefully.

"Perks of being named Inquisitor. To be honest, it's still sinking in," he says. "So, what can I help with?" 

Varric approaches Galen's desk and then stops. He taps his fingers nervously against the fabric of his trousers.

"This might actually be a terrible conversation for both of us." He lets out a nervous chuckle. "It's about Corypheus."

Before Galen can offer him a place to sit, Varric launches full speed into the story of Hawke in the Vinmark mountains — how she unwittingly set the twisted old magister free from a Grey Warden prison. Varric swears that they killed him, but somehow he didn't stay dead. 

When the tale is told, he breathes a heavy sigh and says, "So, there it is. Hawke and I pretty much fucked this up, too."

Galen sits quietly for a minute, processing the details. The information could be useful. Perhaps Blackwall, as a warden, will have some insights. But the rest of the council should discuss it first.

"I assume Cassandra knows already," Galen asks. It's a reasonable guess given her prior interrogation of Varric.

"Yeah. But can we maybe _not_ talk about the Seeker right now?" 

Varric looks paler than usual. 

"You two not getting along?"

"Oh, we are. It's just that– Well. I have my reasons to think that we won't be. In a couple of weeks or thereabouts."

"Do I even _want_ to know?"

"Nah." Varric says. "Best if you don't ask."

"Okay," Galen says. "Do you need to talk about how you're doing?"

At that, Varric stops making eye contact. He glances up at the high-vaulted ceiling, then looks out the windows on his right.

"What, you mean like, talk about my _feelings_ or something?" 

He sounds mortified by the very idea.

"I've heard people do that sometimes?"

Galen's trying to lighten the mood. The past is done. Corypheus is part of the world now and they just have to deal with it. Fretting about what anyone could have done differently isn't going to help. But sometimes, he knows, you can't get an obsessive thought to leave you in peace until you've talked about it.

"I just think you're being overly hard on yourself," he says.

"You're trying to cheer me up," Varric says. 

He looks at Galen and offers up a half-hearted smile. 

"You know, that used to be _my_ job," he adds. "Cheering up my friends in Kirkwall."

So, that's the way to do it, Galen thinks — appeal to a point of commonality. What he and Varric share is a deep reliance on friendships. 

"It's who I was, too," he says, "for my friends at Ostwick." 

Varric shakes his head. 

"Yeah, alright, I get it. You're good at this feelings stuff, aren't you? Well, here you go: Yes, I'm sad without my friends. I miss our old adventures. Turns out we really fucked things up along the way. So that pisses me off. And also — I feel terrible about it. There. Happy now?"

Varric sounds enraged, at first, but it must be cathartic for him, because at the end of his rant, his mood has lifted considerably. 

After that, they simply talk for a while. 

Galen asks about Hawke, and Varric paints the picture of the Champion in rough strokes — her terrible sense of humor, consistently deployed at the most inopportune times; her habit of flirting indiscriminately with everyone despite a complete lack of interest in romance; her love for her friends; her prowess at flaunting the rules. 

From the warmth in his voice and the easy way he smiles when he speaks about Hawke, it's obvious how much Varric loves her.

"Thanks for staying to talk," Galen says, when at last he has to get ready for his late morning meeting with Josephine.

"Yeah, anytime, Inquisitor. You know where to find me."

Just before Varric leaves, he stops at the door and turns back towards Galen.

"One more thing, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Of course," Galen says. "Ask away."

"What's the deal with you and Sparkler?"

"Uh," Galen says, pausing to look up from gathering his letters. "I'm sorry, I don't know what that is–"

Varric chuckles. "Not a what, a _whom_. You know, that other mage you're always talking to. From Tevinter? His former mentor tried to kill us all? What's the deal with you and him?"

"You don't trust Dorian?"

It makes sense that he wouldn't, and Varric isn't the first. Cassandra often makes comments to the tune of _I don't like that he's here_.

But Varric surprises him.

"Considering that my late cousin Thorold's wife Mae is one of the people who vouched for him to the Inquisition — yeah, that's a long story — that's not actually why I'm asking," Varric says. "I just like digging for gossip."

Galen sighs. 

Of course people are talking. He should have known, but with so much work to do, it simply hasn't occurred to him how closely his actions are being watched. It's got to be terribly obvious to everyone how fond he is of Dorian.

He opts for the truth.

"There's not really anything to gossip about yet."

"Yet, huh?" Varric says as he turns away and steps through the door. "Interesting word choice."

"See you later, Varric."

But by now he's talking only to himself. His guest is gone with the door shut behind him.

* * *

On his way to see Leliana, Galen passes through the library. 

Though it's not much of one yet, stocked only with a handful of books scavenged from Haven. A team of scouts went back three days ago to sift through the rubble. They returned with whatever they could salvage. 

Dorian's sitting at one of the library tables, paging through a half-scorched book. He looks up as Galen approaches, and smiles in a way that makes Galen's heart beat faster. 

"I see you've found this place," Galen says. "Have you been to the other library?"

"There's another library? Does that one have more than eight books in it?"

"In fact it does. If you're free in two hours, I have a break between meetings when I can show you."

"I have a better idea," Dorian says. "Let's make it later this evening. I hear the tavern's expecting its first shipment of supplies. I'll nick a bottle of something good. You can have a drink with me in this secret library of yours."

* * *

Every day more and more shipments arrive by the cartload — supplies to repair and outfit Skyhold; food, drink, and clothing for all the people who now call this place their home.

The clean up and construction tasks are a monumental undertaking. But people are setting to work with extraordinary zeal and focus. They are grateful to be safe here, still horrified by what happened at Haven, and they need an outlet for their nerves and restlessness. Manual labor to fix up an old elven stronghold seems to help people cope. 

Or so Galen is told by the manager of the household staff. 

He talks to her about the library on the lower level, and asks for cleaning staff to be sent right away — ideally someone Tranquil. The place is full of magical tomes of uncertain provenance and he doesn't want anyone's curiosity to get the better of them.

It's the sort of chore that, in his old life, he'd simply have completed himself if he wanted it swiftly and safely done. But here, he has no choice but to delegate.

* * *

He finds Dorian waiting for him in the upstairs library with a bottle of Antivan brandy in hand. 

The man looks even more attractive than usual, if that's possible. He's clearly taken extra care with his hair and clothing. He's chosen robes with an uneven cut, alluringly designed to reveal the contours of his chest and shoulders.

Galen has to force his imagination away from its preferred course — conjuring up vivid imagery of Dorian taking off those robes and climbing into bed with him.

Instead he focuses on the brandy.

"Always a good choice. Shall we get started?"

"Lead the way," Dorian says.

Galen endures a pleasant case of nerves as he takes the stairs to the cellars and unlocks the lower library. He's been looking forward to this all afternoon, and now that the moment is here, he hopes Dorian won't find fault with his choice of venue.

His worries disappear as soon as the door shuts behind them.

"Very interesting," Dorian says. "A mage's library."

He pauses at a shelf near the entryway to have a look at the spines of the nearest books. 

"Old, but not ancient," he says. "I wonder who was living here several hundred years ago."

Galen doesn't have answers. While Solas seems familiar with Skyhold, he doesn't speak as freely and generously about it as he does when he's asked about the Fade.

"Hard to believe we found this site just when we needed it most," Galen says.

"Or you were, in fact, chosen by Andraste." Dorian doesn't sound like he's joking.

"I can't rule it out," Galen says. "But I'm not claiming it either."

"Fair enough. Here."

Dorian pours for both of them and hands Galen a glass. The first sip warms his throat delightfully. He takes a seat and Dorian pulls up the other chair, moving it closer to Galen before he sits down.

"Here we are in a southern mage's library," Dorian says. "I think you should tell me what it's like to be a southern mage."

"What would you like to know?"

"About you? Probably everything," Dorian says. "But start with what it was like to learn magic at your Circle."

Galen shares a few stories from his younger days at Ostwick — of learning magic along with his peers, and being cautioned all the time about its dangers. In contrast, Dorian offers some details about his own elite, but tempestuous magical education in Tevinter. The differences in their training are vast, and yet the more they talk, the more Galen appreciates the similarities in how they both turned out. 

Openly and without shame, Dorian loves being a mage. It's obvious just from watching him. He loves the way it feels to use magic — and he's exceptionally good at it.

Galen knows that feeling also. 

Not the total lack of shame, of course. But in the months since he's left the Circle, he's grown to love his own magic in a way he never truly did before. The chance to use it fully for a good cause, to push himself to the limits of his capacity, and to see, for the first time in his thirty-five years, what a powerful mage he is — it's an unparalleled experience. 

One that Dorian understands.

Galen reaches for the bottle and pours them both another drink. He can feel the warmth in his belly, relaxing him. 

Dorian smells good, he thinks. He'd like to hold this man close — press him against the bookshelves and kiss him, perhaps — all the while breathing in deeply to appreciate his scent up close.

Galen is far from anything he'd find so embarrassing as being fully aroused by nothing more than conversation and fantasy — he's not a teenager, for Maker's sake. But he is aware of the early stages of that particular reaction, and his close-fitting robes don't help him. He shifts in his chair for better comfort and discretion, and tries to stop the flood of mental imagery from pouring in.

Soon enough, he and Dorian are falling back into the friendly give and take of a conversation in which they don't quite agree. 

The topic is templars — more specifically, the need for the power of mages to be held in check by a group of trained professionals with the ability to suppress magic when needed. Galen finds it essential, given Tevinter as the cautionary tale. Dorian finds the south to be an example of a system both poorly designed and horrifically implemented — "hence the mage rebellion, yes?"

"Well, obviously the Circles here need to change drastically," Galen says. 

"And yet you were loyal to yours," Dorian points out.

"It's complicated."

"How so?"

Their exchange continues over drinks refreshed a third and fourth time. 

Galen replies with some details about Ostwick, but witholds others. He explains it as more lenient than most, without dragging his family issues into it. He may be keeping things back, but it's mostly because he wants to stay on topic. 

He likes these conversations. 

He's being pushed, yes. But in the process, he's clarifying his thoughts — revising and rethinking them. Sometimes he agrees that he's wrong, or concedes that he's too accustomed to one way of thinking to change it immediately. And Dorian takes as well he gives. He's got a certain arrogance about him, sure, but when they start talking this way, he often yields a point and backs off without rancor when he knows he's mistaken.

It's refreshing and interesting to speak so candidly.

"Alright," Dorian says after the fifth drink has been poured. "If your Circle wasn't abusive, then what about your peers who voted to rebel. What did they want?"

By now Galen's thoughts are feeling nicely fuzzy.

"I don't know," he says. "More from their lives? The chance to move freely, live where they choose, visit families, get married, have children, that sort of thing."

"And that didn't matter to you?"

"I agreed with them. We all deserve those chances if we want them."

"But?" Dorian asks.

"Complacency? I'd begun to accept my life for what it was. A limited one."

Dorian shakes his head, disbelieving. "You don't strike me as complacent _at all_."

"Oh?" Galen asks. "How do I strike you?" 

Dorian smiles, but doesn't answer. At least not at first. He finishes the last of his drink, holds the glass forward, and then watches as Galen pours him another.

"You strike me," he says. "A lot of ways."

"Good ways, I hope."

Dorian tilts his drink until it shines with reflected candlelight. He studies it a moment, then looks at Galen.

"You're not as well-read as some, but more clever than most. Good-natured, though I suspect you have a temper under there somewhere, and that's intriguing," he says. 

"Also, you seem to genuinely care about everyone. Including the people you don't like — which I can't even fathom. What sort of forbidden magic granted you that ability? Please tell me so I can avoid it — it looks exhausting!"

Galen laughs. "And here I was expecting insults about southern mages with our backwards ideas."

"Yes, I was getting to that part."

Drinking and laughing with Dorian is a wonderful way to spend the evening. As the haze of intoxication sets in, Galen finds he's happiest to talk about the battles they've won while fighting together.

"Do you know," Dorian says, "how thoroughly I underestimated you when first we met? I thought I'd have to look after you at Redcliffe castle — get you through the ordeal with my superior knowledge and abilities."

"Hah! How altruistic of you."

"Not at all. You were _very_ nice to look at — I considered it a pleasant burden."

"Wow, that's– I'm speechless." Galen can hear the drunken slurring of his words. It only makes him giggle.

Dorian's still lost in the story.

"When you took down that first guard with one hit, I thought, alright, perhaps this one can handle himself. And that was before we stumbled into the large hall full of Venatori."

"Ugh, there were nine of them, I remember."

"Yes, and I didn't like our chances," Dorian says. "But then you said, 'You take those three, I've got the rest,' and I started to think that between the two of us, maybe I wasn't the unbearably arrogant one, after all."

"No, hold on," Galen says. "Did I _not_ get all six of them?"

He knows he did. And he's sure it doesn't count as arrogance if you're actually capable of doing the thing you claim you can. But he thinks he might have that backwards. Thoughts are increasingly difficult to keep hold of.

"You did get all six!" Dorian says, sounding delighted. "I was very impressed."

"Glad I wasn't too much of a burden for you."

"I'm honestly surprised you trusted me. I doubt I would have."

"I didn't," Galen admits. "I was expecting a double cross. But I was desperate enough to risk it."

Dorian grins at him and raises his empty glass. 

"Here's to desperation!"

"To being wildly desperate for things," Galen says, and clinks their glasses together.

Dorian tries to drink, only to find nothing left of alcohol.

"Fuck, I'm drunk," he says.

"I'm the same. And I should go to sleep," Galen says. "I have meetings in the morning."

And so the evening ends with friendly words of goodnight and a hazy walk upstairs to his quarters.

* * *

When Galen wakes in the morning, the sunlight is painful and a headache sets in.

On his way to the kitchens to grab a late breakfast, he runs into Dorian doing the same. He looks perfectly groomed, as always, but Galen can see the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Didn't sleep well?"

"No," Dorian says. "And you?"

"Terribly," Galen admits. "But that was fun. We should do it again some time."

"Find a strange old room that frightens other people and go there to get drunk off stolen brandy?"

"Exactly," Galen says.

The hangover is worth it for the way Dorian smiles at him.


	8. Hinterlands & Redcliffe (Kiss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon, a lost sheep, and a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing about accounting for travel times is that you can't just fly around instantaneously from one place to the next. Therefore, a cut scene sometimes has to change location.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Skyhold

_My headache from drinking cleared up by midday — which was fortuitous, because that's when the couriers arrived with bad news._

_A dragon is killing livestock in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe. And, as if that weren't troublesome enough, darkspawn have been spotted there, too. We have to deal with both of these problems or we'll lose access to the resources that have been sustaining us. It's a higher priority for the Inquisition right now than wading into the mire of imperial politics._

_So our travels to Orlais are officially delayed. Instead I'm to lead a specialized team back to the Hinterlands — so we can slay a fucking dragon. (I'm really not looking forward to that.) And then, provided we don't all die a fiery death, we get to risk getting sick with the blight as we try to block whatever underground fissure is allowing darkspawn to spill forth and roam the surface._

_Speaking of which, Dorian received news that his friend Felix Alexius has died of blight. Felix's father, the Magister Gereon Alexius — who survived Haven, apparently, and remains imprisoned in our dungeons — deserves to be told of his son's passing. I plan to tell him myself late this evening, and I expect he'll try to spit at me again when he sees me._

_So that will be lovely._

_Lastly, there's a letter on my desk from Dorian's father. He wants to meet with his son and so he wrote to the Reverend Mother Giselle, imploring her to help arrange this meeting. She's now inveigling upon me to carry it out for her. More specifically, she wants me to bring to Dorian to Redcliffe without telling him why._

_Which of course I won't do. If it were me, I'd want to be told and decide for myself. So I'll bring him the letter and see how he wants to proceed._

_All told, I've had more than enough of couriers for one day._

* * *

**The Hinterlands, Day 85**

A dragon roars in the near distance and the Iron Bull looks happier than Galen's ever seen him — quite possibly happier than Galen's ever seen anyone. Ever.

"Boss, let me just say, I could kiss you right now, that's how much I love you for this."

"I appreciate the offer, Bull," Galen whispers, "but how about you thank me by keeping your voice down instead?"

They're nearly halfway across the valley, and Galen's main concern is approaching this dragon without being noticed until the team is ready to strike. The wind is in their favor, so if they're quiet — and lucky — he thinks they can get close enough to land a few surprise hits.

Nevermind that he doesn't actually want to get closer. 

Galen can already feel the terror rising up, threatening to take hold of him. He's thinking too much about the wrong things — the claws, teeth, and fire, the what-ifs and the worries. He has to force himself back to the step-by-step work ahead of them.

Everyone on the eight-person team has a basic set of instructions befitting their role. Archers are to hit from a distance. Those wielding swords and axes will move in close. And mages — hanging back, but moving the field as needed — are to focus on keeping everyone shielded with an energy barrier at all times. 

It's not complicated, in theory. 

In practice, there's nothing simple about casting a series of spells while keeping clear of a fire-breathing dragon. Galen discovers this firsthand as soon as they've struck the first blow and engaged the creature. It rears up, crashes forward, and in that moment the only conceivable plan is summed up perfectly by Sera's shouting — "Fucking run!"

Perhaps it's the mark on his hand drawing its attention somehow — or perhaps this dragon simply takes issue with him personally — Galen can't be sure. All he knows is that the creature keeps turning its attention towards him alone. 

In a way, it's a useful behavioral quirk that the rest of the team takes advantage of. On the other hand, it's absolutely terrifying to be so relentlessly targeted. The dragon is dangerous from every angle — from the polished blades of its teeth to the bludgeoning lash of its tail. And that leaves little room for error.

Galen is strong and quick enough that he's able to use the rocky terrain to his advantage. He dashes for cover behind one set of boulders, catches his breath for two heartbeats, then runs for the safety of the next group of rocks. He casts whenever he can — on the move sometimes — doing his utmost make sure that Cassandra and Blackwall remain shielded and that his own barrier never falters.

Sparks fly up behind him as the dragon again rears back and lands with a heavy rumble. It shakes the earth, while fire scorches the ground at his feet. Galen's barely a step ahead of the flames. 

But then Bull charges in, war axe swinging, and steals its attention just long enough for Galen to retreat to more substantial cover.

"Insanity," he says to himself. "Remind me again why we're doing this."

But no one answers because the others are still out in the open, scrambling away from the worst of the fire.

"Fuck," he says and heads back into the fray.

Little by little, they chip away at it, draining its blood and vitality over the course of an hour. It's a punishing fight. He and his companions are bruised and bloodied, but none have yet fallen, and Galen can almost see the end in sight.

When the dragon stumbles and at last seems to fall, the warriors close in with their blades. 

But it's still too soon.

The great beast pumps its wings, using the last of its strength to rise low off the ground. It draws a breath and then bellows down with all the fire it can muster.

"Shield them now!" Galen shouts.

At the same instant, he, Solas, and Dorian all let loose with their spells, cloaking their companions in a life-saving barrier.

Enraged, the dragon crashes back down and charges full speed towards Galen.

He freezes. 

His mana is spent. His bladed staff lies broken on the field. There's no time to run, nor even to think. And so he acts without knowing, raising up his left hand. The rift mark reacts with a magic of its own, siphoned directly from its connection with the Fade. It surrounds the dragon in a vortex of energy, stopping it in its tracks and draining its life away.

The creature falls dead.

Galen falls to his knees.

* * *

"You're gonna have a drink with me, boss. Once we get back to Skyhold, I'll show you the proper way to celebrate a dragon killing!"

"I don't know, Bull. This way feels right and proper to me," Galen says.

He's lying down on his bedroll, dragged close to the fire for extra warmth, and he hasn't moved in more than an hour. It's a joy to relax his whole body after so much exertion.

He also has a good view of Dorian, who's sitting next to Sera. He can't quite hear what they're saying to each other, but every so often Dorian laughs — and it's such a pleasing sound.

His comfort doesn't last, unfortunately, because Cassandra wants a word with him away from the others.

"Oh, come on, Cassandra," he says. "Leave a man in peace."

He groans about it, but gets up, pulls on a warmer cloak, and starts to follow her towards the path.

The Iron Bull looks from him to Cassandra and back again.

"Dragging him away for some special alone time, Seeker?" Bull asks, teasing her.

She turns around and glares at him.

"Don't you have better things to gossip about? He doesn't even–" she says, but stops herself before finishing that sentence. "It isn't like that."

With that, she walks away. And for a moment, Galen simply stands there. Everyone else's side conversations have gone silent, and his companions are all staring up at him.

"Guess I better go see what she wants," he says. Then he glances at Bull and adds, "But you're missing the mark by a longshot with _that_ assumption, my friend."

Sera giggles at this and whispers a comment to Dorian that makes him laugh along with her. Galen's curious, but supposes he can find out later what was said.

He turns away from the warmth of the campfire and follows Cassandra down the path. He catches up with her at the waterfall. 

Above them, the overflow from the upper lake cascades over a ledge to the pool at their feet. From this pool it flows downward, disappearing over the cliff's edge to the floor of the valley below. The sound of running water drowns out all other noise in the background.

He can no longer hear the cheerful laughter from their campsite.

Matter-of-factly, Cassandra catches him up on the status of the next day's mission. Inquisition scouts have already discovered the source of the darkspawn. A rock slide in the abandoned dwarven outpost of Valammar has opened up a path leading down to the Deep Roads.

"It won't take all of us to seal the open tunnels," she says. "We can handle it without you. You should go with Dorian to Redcliffe tomorrow and find out what that letter is about. But be wary."

"You know I will be."

"What I know is that you are fond of him," Cassandra says. "Don't allow that to interfere with your otherwise good judgment."

Galen looks from her face — strangely pale under the silver starlight — to the margins of the water where the blood lotus grows. 

He takes offense at what she says, and yet, he thinks a moment before he replies. The friendship and strong regard he's begun to feel for Cassandra is not something he takes for granted. He wants very much to nurture their connection — and not risk it over something as fleeting as getting his hackles raised at her poorly worded expression of concern.

He looks up again, meets her gaze, and when he speaks, his words are sincere and his demeanor is not unkind.

"He's out here risking his life for the Inquisition just as much you or I. You really still don't trust him?"

"I–" she says, and then pauses to give a hearty sigh before she continues. "I no longer mistrust him. I simply don't understand what you see in him."

Galen chuckles. He could offer any number of suggestive replies about Dorian's physical charms, and yet, he doesn't wish to reduce it to that — not even for the higher purpose of taunting Cassandra.

"I think I just have terrible taste in people," he admits instead. "After all, I'm fond of you, too, Seeker."

It takes a second for his words to sink in, but once they do, she gasps in a way that sounds simultaneously amused and offended.

"Don't goad me, Trevelyan," she says. "If you think I won't push you into this pond, you're dangerously mistaken."

"Hah! I'd like to see you try," he says and then jumps back, laughing, when she actually reaches out for him.

* * *

**Redcliffe, Day 86**

Throughout the years, Galen's been there for his friends during all sorts of difficult circumstances — including a number of painful family estrangements. His longstanding quarrel with his own parents has made him sympathetic to the ways that mages can suffer. It hurts when a parent yearns for the days before magic emerged and changed everything.

But the matter between Dorian and his father is something else entirely. What Magister Halward Pavus tried to do to his son is, quite plainly, horrifying.

As far as Galen understands it, the Tevinter emphasis on enhancing their magical lineage has created what amounts to a breeding program — as a farmer would do for their horses. 

It's not only distasteful, it's completely foreign as a concept. 

He knows, of course, that if he himself hadn't been a mage, he would have been his father's heir — compelled to marry and have children. But he at least would have had a say in it. He could have chosen a wife based on friendship and mutual understanding. Together, they could have attempted what many others in his family had done before: building a friendly marriage while finding satisfying romances elsewhere.

It would not have been his preference, but he could have been happy with that.

The idea of someone trying to change his very nature by a blood magic ritual — it's chilling to think of. 

Now that he's heard the details, he's surprised Dorian agreed to come to Redcliffe. 

But he did agree. And Galen suspects that, on some level, Dorian's looking to his father for closure. What Halward says next may determine whether the conflict ends in reconciliation or in a final, undeniable severing of ties. And so, despite it all, Galen urges Dorian to hear his father out.

* * *

Galen leaves the Gull and Lantern alone and heads away from the city gates, towards the chantry.

_Might as well_ , he thinks. And when he reaches the main door, he opens it and steps inside.

Light streams through the stained glass windows and a few of the lamps are lit. But no one else is present. So he takes a few minutes to gather his thoughts. 

He closed a Fade rift here, not long ago, before meeting with Dorian and Felix. And now there's no sign that this place was ever disturbed by a dangerous plot to warp time. It's a normal chantry like any other.

"So," he says, speaking aloud to no one but himself and the empty space around him, "we both know it's true what my parents say. I don't have faith." 

He's not really sure why he's doing this, except that it feels like a sentiment long overdue to be spoken out loud.

"I mean, you might really be there, listening to me. But if I'm honest, it feels like I'm talking to myself. Like it always has."

The statue of Andraste looks down at him with her blank, unseeing eyes. He trusts, of course, that she was a real person once. But she's been a dead a long time. And who can truly say if the Maker she spoke of was real? 

"If you are there, and you did choose me as your herald, then please don't be too hard on me. I'm trying my best. I know I don't have proper faith, but I do have faith in people. And that has to count for something."

It's probably the most lackluster prayer to Andraste that anyone's ever spoken while standing in the nave of this chantry. And yet, it's a relief to have come here.

Before he leaves, Galen takes one last look around – enough that he can report back to Cassandra that he spotted no evidence of a new Venatori plot. And then he goes off to find a few other things to do with the remainder of his afternoon.

* * *

The sun is low in the sky when Dorian approaches the gates of the village.

"You didn't have to wait for me," he says. "I would've made my way back to camp on my own."

He sounds exhausted.

"I know," Galen says, as he hops down from the stone wall where he's been sitting. "But Cassandra asked me to check this place thoroughly, so I've been talking to the locals. I helped a few of them and got a free lunch out of it. Not bad, for a day."

Dorian doesn't answer. He seems inclined towards silence. Understandable, Galen thinks, for someone who's just spent hours in conversation with the parent who would have forcibly altered him by way of blood magic. 

Galen follows his lead and stays quiet. As they pass through the gates, the long shadows of late afternoon stretch out on the road before them. The day fades to evening so beautifully in this wild, green countryside. Galen's content to take in the landscape, not saying another word.

Once they've walked for a while — more than halfway to their campsite — it's Dorian who breaks the silence between them. 

"So let me see if I understand this properly," he says. "You're telling me that the leader of the Inquisition spent his time running frivolous errands for villagers all day long?"

Galen grins at him, thoroughly overjoyed to be teased so unexpectedly.

"Frivolous errands? How dare you — I assisted the locals in an adventurous fashion," he says.

"Adventurously gathered elfroot, did you?"

"The mockery hurts," Galen says, entirely insincerely. "I'm a sensitive man."

"Oh, are you? I'll bear that in mind," Dorian says. 

Galen doesn't fail to notice the look Dorian gives him — a quick, appreciative once over — before turning his attention back to the road ahead.

"I'll have you know, my adventures took me all over the Hinterlands. I gathered quite a few varieties of herb — not _only_ elfroot. And after that I tracked down a lost sheep for its distraught human companion." 

"How thrilling that must have been for you."

"Mmhm. Lord Woolsley. May he rest in peace." Galen presses his hand to his chest as though he's sincerely moved by the loss.

This has the intended effect of piquing Dorian's curiosity.

"Wait — the sheep died?" he asks. "After you rescued it? Or did you somehow manage to kill it in the attempt?"

Galen grins and evades the question by heaping rapturous praise upon Lord Woolsley.

"Dorian, you should have seen this majestic animal. Wool like the color of the sky at sunset — reds and oranges, a hint of purple. He was wily, too, but I tracked him down, way high up in the hills. He didn't want to go home, but I figured out how to nudge him along with a spell or two."

"So you accidentally killed this animal with your magic?"

Galen gasps in mock indignation. 

"Don't insult me, I have better control than that!" he says. "I killed him on purpose because he turned out to be a rage demon in disguise."

Dorian groans. "Were you sitting around all afternoon thinking up this ridiculous story?"

Galen's about to explain that it really happened. It sounds like a fabrication, to be sure — but like most things that have occurred so far in Redcliffe, the truth is stranger than stories. He pauses, however, when he sees that Dorian's expression has shifted. The amiable facade falters, and beneath it, he looks truly devastated.

"Are you alright?" Galen asks.

"No," Dorian says. "Not really."

And Galen would leave it at that, if asked. But instead Dorian stops at the edge of the empty road, turns towards him, and opens up about all of it — how it felt, and still feels, to have been rejected and betrayed so thoroughly by his own father.

And then, to Galen's utter surprise, he apologizes — both for dragging the Inquisition into a private issue and for the things Halward said and assumed about Galen personally. He apologizes for putting his own rage on display in a humiliating spectacle.

"I can't imagine what you must think of me now."

For a second, Galen's left at a loss for words. 

How could Dorian possibly think that any of this reflects badly on him? To Galen, it's quite the opposite — a true measure of his strength and resolve. It's also the confirmation of everything he's been feeling towards Dorian thus far. 

Attraction and camaraderie are wonderful things, but his feelings go well beyond both — Galen deeply admires this man. 

It's time to tell him so.

He puts his thoughts to words, not as eloquently as he'd like, but he manages to convey the sentiment. The effect of those words upon Dorian is immediate. His troubled expression changes to relief. He smiles, and looks genuinely hopeful. 

The next thing Dorian says is about the importance of staying true to what's in your heart. It's fucking romantic, is what it is — and Galen's not about to let the moment pass unanswered.

He steps forward, palms up, entreating. He's not even sure what he's asking for until Dorian meets him halfway. Before Galen's thoughts can catch up with him, he's holding the man and being held. Standing at the edge of the road under a darkening sky, he kisses Dorian for the first time. 

It's more gentle than anything he's imagined. 

Galen's fantasies — when he's alone at night with the privacy to indulge himself — have been lustful and unrestrained. He's imagined nothing of the soft, almost tentative way they take hold of each other. Dorian seems cautious in this, and Galen meets that caution with a kiss that's well-paced to be careful and slow. Their mouths open not to devour in a passionate frenzy, but to taste and to savor. 

It feels incredible. 

_Oh,_ Galen thinks, _I've missed this._

Because while he does remember the last time that kissing someone lit a spark in him with this same intensity, it's been fifteen years since it's happened. 

Galen pulls back, not because he wants it to stop — quite the opposite in fact. He'd like to begin moving lower, kissing along the line of that beautiful jaw, learning what sounds of pleasure he can wring from this man by kissing his throat. But he steps back to check in and make sure this isn't too much too fast on an already overwhelming day.

Dorian doesn't look troubled at all. But he shivers as Galen pulls away, and it's unfortunately not from the good kind of chills. With the sun gone down, the temperature has dropped precipitously. 

"You know, I'm much more skillful at this when I'm not freezing half to death in the wilderness."

"We can pick this up again back at Skyhold," Galen says. "I mean, if you'd like?"

"I would like."

"Good," Galen says. "So would I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fine to point out typos. I don't take offense. Usually takes me a few more read throughs after posting to catch them all anyway.


	9. The Road & Skyhold (A Kiss Interrupted)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yearning, kisses interrupted, a purple Hawke appears, the plot moves forward, and a friendship truly begins

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Field notes, En route from the Hinterlands to Skyhold

_A week on the road feels longer than it ought to._

_None of us gets much privacy while we're traveling — only a few minutes alone for washing up and the like. That does give me the chance to tend to my own frustrations as quickly and quietly as possible. But it barely helps._

_I can't get him off my mind._

* * *

**En route to Skyhold, Days 87-93**

Their conversation unfolds without needing to be spoken. It happens through gazes that linger and in chances, here and there, for a fleeting touch. 

In the mornings, while saddling up their horses, they move in close proximity and brush against each other more often than necessary.

Sitting by the fire in the evening, Dorian tells him a story and in the middle of it, he says "you'll like this part," and touches Galen's forearm. The next night it's Galen's story, and Galen's hand resting for a moment on Dorian's bent knee.

It's never enough, Galen thinks, but it's better than nothing at all.

* * *

On the third day, the group stumbles across an abandoned farmhouse. As they search, Dorian calls to him from the back room.

"Trevelyan, come have a look at this."

Among a pile of broken boards, Dorian's found a mage's staff. Examining it together affords them the opportunity to stand shoulder to shoulder.

"Good runes, fine blade," Galen says. 

He takes hold of the staff in such a way that he's also holding Dorian's hand.

"Yes, I thought you'd like it," Dorian says. 

He looks so deliciously kissable that Galen starts to lean in. But he's interrupted before he gets far. 

From behind them, near the doorway, the Iron Bull chuckles.

"We didn't find anything else, boss. If you two are done fondling each other, I think we can leave."

Dorian answers without seeming flustered in the slightest.

"No, not done yet." 

He runs his fingers along the grain of the wood, and points out its sturdiness. 

"This one might last you more than a week," he says. "But do try to be gentle with it."

"A dragon literally broke the last one," Galen reminds him. "It wasn't for my lack of gentleness."

"No, of course not, you aren't reckless at all." 

The tone of his voice is fond sarcasm. He smiles when Galen looks him in the eye.

From the doorway, the Iron Bull shakes his head and laughs. "So _that's_ how it is."

* * *

On the fifth day, a storm rolls in and they make camp early. Bedrolls alone won't suffice, so they set up the two large tents — to shelter inside, while taking the night watch in shifts. 

There's not much space and too many people are crowded together.

These sleeping arrangements would provide two people with the perfect excuse to press up against each other for most of the night. And yet, there's something distasteful about the idea. Galen has certain standards for intimate encounters, and meeting them requires privacy, unencumbered displays of affection, and a clear and open conversation about what's okay and what isn't.

To avoid any chance of awkward groping in the dark, he chooses to sleep in the other tent, away from Dorian. And he ends up with Sera's bony elbow jammed against his back all night long. 

It isn't optimal.

And with Skyhold still two days away, Galen's not sure how much more of this he can take before he starts to get irritated.

* * *

**Skyhold, Day 94**

He's hoping for time spent alone with Dorian, but what Galen finds at Skyhold instead is one crisis following swiftly upon the heels of another.

He's barely had time to return to his quarters and wash away the grime of the road when Madame Vivienne's servant shows up at the door to collect him. He follows the young man outside to where Vivienne and Solas appear to be mired in a stand off.

Galen can't understand the conflict at first, but after they've both answered a few of his questions, he begins to remember the strange boy from the night of Haven's attack. Not a boy, it turns out, but a demon. And Galen is immediately ready to send it away, as Vivienne demands. And yet, Solas entreats him to choose differently — says that whatever the spirit's intentions, it isn't here to cause harm.

Galen's not sure why he listens. 

He talks to the creature — to Cole. And he comes away with the sense that banishing him from Skyhold might not be the best course of action.

"What were the templars doing that they summoned him? Until we know more, let him stay here under Solas' watch."

After that, he can't even properly reply to Vivienne's displeased comments — all of which are valid, he thinks — because a soldier has come running from the barracks to find him. She's saying something very fast and hard-to-follow about Lady Cassandra trying to kill the dwarf and please, my lord, do come quick.

Galen races off to intervene in another conflict. 

This one centers around Marian Hawke, who happens to have arrived in Skyhold. 

After brokering a tentative stay of hostilities between Varric and the Seeker, Galen heads up to the ramparts to meet Marian.

"So you're the one dragging Varric all over the countryside these days," she says. "You have my sympathies, Inquisitor. It's a thankless task."

"Very funny, Hawke, I'm right here," Varric says.

And for the next half hour, Galen tries his best to keep track of the relevant details that Hawke shares with him. He has to tease out the important bits amidst the jokes and the fast-paced banter she keeps up with Varric.

As their conversation draws to a close, it's apparent that the Inquisition's next step will be to rendezvous with Hawke once she's tracked down a Grey Warden friend of hers somewhere near Crestwood. Galen's about to leave them both in order to convene the council and discuss the matter further, when Hawke leans over the ramparts and laughs.

"Hah! Excellent. Mage against normal guy. I love a good fight when the odds aren't fair!"

Galen approaches to see where she's pointing.

"Oh, for Maker's sake," he says as he spots Dorian at the gates, gesturing angrily at an unfamiliar man.

"I'd better go see what that's about," he says, and leaves Hawke and Varric to continue their banter.

By the time he gets down to the gates, the man — an Orlesian merchant — is gone and Dorian is insufferably pissed off about some sort of amulet. 

"Okay, let's talk about this later," Galen says, once he's gathered a few of the details. 

He can't stay to help, because another servant has arrived with a stack of reports that all need his immediate attention. 

The day drags on.

* * *

Later that evening, Galen finally catches up with Dorian. He's still annoyed about the amulet, but ceases all complaints when Galen suggests that perhaps they should spend some time alone — and not in a place so public as the middle of the library.

Twenty minutes after that, Dorian meets up with him at the landing just outside his quarters. They're kissing each other as soon as Galen's door shuts behind them. 

It feels more frenzied this time — a week on the road full of frustrated longing will do that — and Galen can barely remember the last time he wanted sex as badly as he aches for it now. 

Dorian pulls him closer, with one hand moving gently at the back of his neck and the other more insistently bringing their hips together. Galen's already reaching between them for the buckle to Dorian's belt — when a knock at the door interrupts him.

"Fuck," he whispers against Dorian's lips and then pulls away from the kiss to call out, "Who's there?"

"Cullen," says Cullen, his voice slightly muffled from behind the heavy door.

Galen takes a few steps closer to hear him better, though his gaze still rests on Dorian, hair disheveled and breathing a bit more heavily than normal.

"What do you need, Cullen?"

"I'd rather not shout it through the door," he says.

Galen shakes his head, hoping to communicate clearly to Dorian that there's no way in the world he's opening that door.

"The thing is, Commander," Galen says, "I'm afraid I'm not fully dressed." 

Technically, it isn't a lie. He looks pointedly at the scarf in Dorian's hand, which had been secured neatly around Galen's neck until a moment ago.

"But," he adds, "I can open the door if you'd–"

"No!" 

Galen stifles a laugh at the forcefulness and panic of Cullen's reply.

"Please don't," Cullen adds drily. "The rest of the council needs to see you — as soon as you're decently dressed."

At this, Dorian can't seem to hold his tongue any longer. 

"They'll need to pay Vivienne's tailors extra to spoil you with the nice fabrics if they expect you to show up to a council meeting _decently dressed_." 

He speaks quietly enough that Cullen probably can't hear him through the door. Galen hopes not, at least. He knows he stands little chance at thwarting the gossip, but he can at least try to minimize it for a while.

"Alright, thank you," Galen says, in a reply that serves a dual purpose — as an amused 'that's quite enough' for Dorian, and a polite affirmation to Cullen that he'll comply with the request.

Once the sound of Cullen's boots has disappeared down the stairs, Galen sighs.

"You could wait for me here?" he says. "Though I don't know how long this will take. Sometimes it's an hour or more."

"I'm already exhausted. I won't be any fun at all in an hour or two."

Galen nods. "I understand. And I'm sorry."

"Come here," Dorian says. He kisses Galen again, more slowly this time, while replacing his scarf around his neck. "There's always tomorrow."

* * *

However, tomorrow stops being an option. 

The meeting drags on as the council argues about a change of plan. In their prior session, they decided to rest for three days and then follow Hawke to Crestwood. But in the intervening hours, a letter from Comte Boisvert has arrived regarding Josephine and the murder of two of her couriers. 

She has the foreboding feeling that she's the target of an assassin's contract. The comte will only provide information if the Inquisitor himself pays a visit in Val Royeaux.

"Maker knows, I don't want to leave here tomorrow," Galen says. "I need the rest."

What he means, but of course doesn't say, is that he'd like a day or two to indulge his desires with Dorian before being sent back out on the road.

"But we can't have our ambassador's life in danger," Galen adds. "So I think Val Royeaux just became our priority."

And they'll have to leave immediately in order to deal with the matter before things escalate further.

* * *

It's late when the meeting ends, but Galen is so far past tired, he's awake again. So instead of retiring to bed, he goes to Cassandra after spotting her in the yard. Despite the hour, she's working through a series of vigorous training exercises. 

He's not sure she's alright after everything that happened earlier in the day with Varric. 

"Come on," he says, after greeting her. "Give it a rest and let's talk a while."

It's a good decision. 

They sit down and talk about Kirkwall, the templars and mages there, and the way it all went wrong. Cassandra is still deeply shaken by the way the situation escalated, unchecked by Seeker intervention.

Galen tells her the same thing he said to Varric about Corypheus.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. What's done is done."

From there, Cassandra changes the subject to ask a more personal question. 

"What exactly were your parents trying to accomplish for you?"

She's knows the vague outline already, but lacks the finer details. Galen's not sure there's time enough before morning to get into all of it, but he does his best to summarize.

He explains what his mother believed — that her son's magic was a trial of faith. She was certain that if she stayed resolute in her piety, his magic would be taken away by divine intervention. 

"Your father believed this, also?"

"He loves my mother," Galen says. "Unfailingly so. His faith is more orthodox, but their goals were the same."

"He thought magic could be removed without Tranquility, and he believed the Chantry had lost this knowledge?" 

Cassandra recalls that much from what Galen has told her previously.

"Lost it or else kept it suppressed," Galen says. "He was relying on old family legends, but with no records to substantiate any of it. For many years, he was determined to figure it out."

"And in the meantime, he made sure you received certain privileges," Cassandra says.

"Precisely," Galen says, and explains how it all went sour. 

As the years went by and his parents' efforts didn't yield results, they grew more and more frustrated. 

"When I found out about the bribery to the Chantry and the Templars, I confronted them. And that was the spark that blew it all up. In the end it was easier for them to blame their failures on my lack of faith than to admit they'd been wrong since the start."

"I'm so sorry," she says.

"It's alright. I haven't been angry with them in a long time. And they're right about me. I'm as faithless as they say."

"You don't speak to your brother, either?" 

"It seemed better for him if I stopped sending letters. I didn't want to force him to take sides."

"A difficult but kind decision," Cassandra says.

"Sometimes every option is a bad one."

She looks at him searchingly, as if scrutinizing some new facet of his character that's only now become visible.

"If it's any consolation," she says, "I do believe you are a man of faith, Trevelyan. In your own way, perhaps. But it's there."

He releases a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He feels more relieved by her words than he even understands. 

"Thank you," he says. "That means a lot coming from you."

He reaches for her hand and squeezes it gently. For the first time, he looks across the table at Cassandra and truly sees a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick FYI from me, the writer. I'm atheist, but I like writing about characters who struggle with faith. And I like honoring the complexities and nuances of religious systems in fictional worlds. Galen wants to be a believer. And he isn't one. He won't become one. But the qualities he ascribes to true faith are qualities he wants desperately to find in himself.


	10. Val Royeaux

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Field notes from Orlais, A day away from Val Royeaux

_This week of traveling has given me the chance to spend more time with Josephine, which I'm glad to have done. She's attended several of my aunt's parties and there she's met some of my relatives, including my parents and younger brother._

_I've missed the chance to have conversations about the way things were. Not that I was part of that life beyond the Circle, but still — it's a familiar thing at a time when I need it._

_The Iron Bull keeps a close watch — and interjects comments of his own — whenever I talk to her. He's serving as her personal bodyguard for the duration of the trip, but I've told him he doesn't need to guard so closely when it's only me. Not every roadside chat needs to be a group conversation._

_And I'd prefer fewer details about his exploits with the red-headed women who work in the Skyhold kitchens._

_I've been curt with him. And he hasn't deserved it. But in response he simply laughed and said, "You seem frustrated lately, boss." And then he glanced sidelong at Dorian — and honestly, I'm tired of everyone prying into my personal life._

_It would be nice to go back to living the quiet life of an average person._

_But we arrive in Val Royeaux tomorrow and there's some small blessing in that. I'll have tasks to take my mind off of these frustrations._

* * *

**Val Royeaux, Day 102**

The meeting is done, the assassin is gone, and the real Comte Boisvert is locked in a freestanding wardrobe, with Josephine knelt on the floor beside it. Her diplomatic skills seem to include expertise in translating muffled sounds issued by a gagged and sequestered man.

 _There's got to be a story behind that particular talent_ , Galen thinks. But he decides to ask her later.

For now, he goes off to check every room in the estate, hoping to find the same servant who led them up to the meeting with the false Comte Boisvert.

"No luck," he says when he returns to the room where Josephine and his other companions are gathered. 

A false servant, no doubt, employed by the House of Repose. So much for Galen's plan to send one of the comte's men out to hire a locksmith. All of his household staff must have been paid to keep away — or else something worse has happened to them.

Sera looks up from the drawers of the desk, which she's been rifling through.

"If you let me have a go, I'd have it open ten minutes ago." 

Muffled grunts burst forth from within the locked wardrobe, which Jospehine interprets for the rest of the group.

"Once again, the comte insists upon a properly licensed, professional locksmith for this delicate family heirloom."

Sera, now seated on top of the desk, holds up a sparkling pendant on a chain and starts tucking it into her pocket. 

Galen shoots her a look and mouths the words, "Put it back." 

She frowns and wrinkles her nose at him, but complies.

"Fine," she says. "Then let's _go_ already. Just leave him in there if he likes it so much."

But Josephine objects. She has concerns about airflow and the tight seal on the cabinet doors. She fears that the comte may soon fall unconscious and die.

Galen takes her objections seriously. 

He meant what he said to her earlier — no more deaths because of this contract. Two couriers are killed already, but that's where it stops. He's determined to solve this issue with paperwork, not violence. And he's not about to let some unimportant lesser noble get caught in the middle of this quarrel and die in a closet.

"I'll go for the locksmith," he says. "Sera, you stay here. If the comte stops muttering sweet nothings to Josephine through the wardrobe door, just get it open as fast as you can. Understood?"

She nods with an immediate show of willingness. And Galen realizes, perhaps for the first time, that she always listens to him and he's not sure why. She doesn't seem to obey anyone else's requests.

It's a matter for thought, but not right now.

He puts on his coat again, adjusts it at the shoulders, and buckles the belt. And he's sure that Dorian is watching him, but he doesn't turn to look. Galen doesn't need to catch the man every single time his gaze lingers in appreciation. It's enough to know that he enjoys the view. _Rather strapping_ , Dorian called him. And by the Maker, that was nice to hear.

A comment from the Iron Bull draws Galen back to the present.

"There's an option B here, boss," Bull says. "I can cut him a big airhole in the side of that thing." He pats his war axe and tilts his head, appraisingly, at the wardrobe.

The sounds from the comte grow louder and more urgent.

"The comte wishes you would not," Josephine interprets.

"I'm sure Sera can handle it," Galen says.

She's taken out her lockpicks now and is arranging them in a starburst pattern on the floor. 

"Bull, just stay here and keep watching out for Lady Montilyet."

That leaves only Dorian without a job to do.

"Care to come with me?" Galen asks him. 

"Oh? Do you need looking after?" Dorian asks. 

"Not really," Galen says. "But it'll be fun. You can criticize people's outfits on the way there. And I'll pretend to know what you're talking about."

That earns him a laugh from Dorian. "How can I say no to that."

* * *

The city is beautiful as ever, and the day feels so ordinary that Galen can almost imagine he's a regular person again, unchanged by the mark of the rift and the duty to use it. Instead, he's simply a man strolling through the city, taking in the sights, and hoping for a romance with the friend who walks beside him. 

He's tempted to suggest that they forget about the locksmith for now, and instead take a seat at the open air café. He could use some food and wine — and the delicious way it feels when their hands touch across the space of the table between them.

But his sense of responsibility wins out, and he heads straight away to the locksmith, who adds the estate of Comte Boisvert to the afternoon schedule. It will take several hours before the job is started. 

In the meantime, Galen has a few ideas for how to pass the time. And food is the last item on the list.

"Come on," he says to Dorian. "There's a shop I want to check out."

He saw it the last time he was in Val Royeaux, before Redcliffe and mages and Venatori plots. 

Before Dorian. 

On that first trip to Orlais, he'd been curious and wanted to visit the place, but Cassandra insisted they didn't have time for frivolity. (And if he's really honest with himself, part of the reason he chose Bull, Sera, and Dorian for this trip to the city is because not one of them would object to a bit of frivolity.)

The sign on the shop door is nonspecific — a scroll unfurled — and there's nothing else on the door to suggest what manner of goods is sold there. It's a baffling strategy if the goal is to profit on the sale of wares — which is why Galen's been wondering about the place since he first walked past.

Dorian follows him into the shop and then watches with an amused grin as the shopkeeper proceeds to insult Galen's taste, wealth, and understanding of the economy of fine goods.

"So, you sell one very expensive item?" Galen asks, trying to get a handle on the situation.

He's gathered enough information amidst the insults to figure out this one basic detail. 

"You won't tell me what it is. And I'm supposed to trust you that it's worth it?"

The circular conversation is starting to frustrate him, but he sticks with it because Dorian is chuckling now, and seems to be wholly enjoying his role as the quiet observer.

By the time they leave, Dorian is laughing. Galen stands beside him empty-handed. There's really no way he would buy some overpriced mystery object — despite the merchant's withering comment that _it is not_ overpriced, _it is_ priced.

"Well, at least you're entertained," Galen says. 

"I've discovered that I like watching pompous men insult you."

"A vicarious thrill, is it?"

Galen smiles at him. It feels really good to have time alone with Dorian, and to be teased by him. 

"It's the way it played out on your face," Dorian says. "You looked so genuinely offended and yet also — I don't know, eager, perhaps? amused? — to hear what the man would say next. It was quite charming." 

They're standing in the middle of the path, which isn't convenient for others, so Galen moves towards a balcony overlooking the lake. Dorian walks with him and for a short while, they stand side by side, watching the water.

"It's also fun to laugh at you," Dorian adds, breaking the pleasant silence between them. "You take it so well."

Galen's thoughts go immediately to a suggestive comment about _taking it well_ that he absolutely will not say. Not in so public a place, at least, where there's no option to act upon such a blatant come on. Instead, he looks at Dorian, appreciating his features and form, but also the wit and personality of this man he feels so fortunate to have met.

"You know, that depends on who's laughing."

* * *

"So what about that merchant?" Galen asks as they head back towards the stairs to the lower level.

Dorian gives him a blank look, so Galen clarifies.

"The one who won't sell you your amulet. Is he here? Let's go talk to him."

"He's here, but no," Dorian says. "Don't get involved."

It's obvious how much he wants that amulet back. Galen's not really sure why he's being stubborn about it. The whole thing seems overblown. And he's sure he can help somehow.

"What if he's changed his mind and agrees this time?" Galen says. "If we don't go talk to him you won't ever know."

Dorian sighs.

"Fine," he says. "But honest question, how do you do this?"

"Do what?" Galen asks.

Dorian looks troubled now in a way he didn't before. And Galen starts to regret even mentioning this merchant.

"How do you convince me to agree to these things?"

"Wait," Galen says. "Stop, please." 

But Dorian brushes past him, walking faster than before.

"We don't have to talk to him," Galen says. "It was only a suggestion."

"Well, now I want to," Dorian says, but he sounds annoyed.

As Galen jogs to catch up, he replays their conversation in his mind, thinking back on everything he's said. Has he been acting manipulative in some way? He doesn't think so, but now he can't be sure. 

His friend Alana once pointed out how often it seemed that Galen got his own way. Later, she'd laughed it off and said she meant nothing by it, but it stays with him still — this sense that perhaps he puts pressure on people. 

His heart feels heavy as he follows Dorian down the stairs to the Summer Bazaar's central courtyard. He resolves to pay closer attention. To listen better and insist less. 

But there's no time to dwell on it now. The next thing he knows he's catching up with Dorian in an alcove, and being greeted by a sycophantic sort of person named Ponchard de Lieux.

It doesn't go well.

The man wants to be paid off in a way that requires serious political influence. A common merchant joining a professional league for nobles? It's no easy thing to manage. The Inquisition just might be able to pull it off for him.

But Galen's heard enough already.

"I'm not helping you," he says and walks away.

Dorian follows. He seems relieved to be done with the conversation. In fact, the further away they walk from de Lieux, the more his mood appears to improve.

By the time they've reached the avenue alongside the café, Galen's ready to put the incident behind them. To close the metaphorical door on it, he opts for a bit of lighthearted teasing. 

"So, I hear I'm not your friend?"

He refers to Dorian's own flustered words, told to de Lieux in response to the merchant's snide insinuations. 

"I didn't mean to–" Dorian starts to explain, then falters and tries again. "Well, look, I only said that because of how he was–" 

Dorian shakes his head. But he's smiling a little now and that's really all Galen was hoping for.

"I do think you know what I meant," Dorian adds. 

He still seems charmingly flustered, but he's at least able to string a full sentence together.

"Here's a thought," Galen says as he steps closer. 

He whispers the next part so as to prevent any strangers in gilt masks from overhearing him. 

"You can be my friend _and_ want to go to bed with me. These things don't have to exclude each other."

Dorian looks taken aback — perhaps unprepared to reply to a statement so direct. 

"I–"

"Don't worry about it," Galen says, grinning playfully. "Look."

He points to the Café Le Masque du Lion.

"What now?" Dorian asks.

"Wine. Grapes. One of those very large cheese wheels," Galen says. "Let's bring some food to the Boisvert estate. Josephine's had a hard day. This will cheer her up."

Dorian looks him up and down, appraising first and then rendering judgment. 

"You're unbearably thoughtful sometimes."

* * *

It's past sunset by the time the locksmith arrives and gets started. 

Galen's companions are still eating and drinking together in the comte's private quarters. But Galen stands alone at the window in the other room, looking out on the city. The lamps are lit and Val Royeaux glimmers like a web of jewels catching firelight. It's really beautiful.

He turns when he feels the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder.

Dorian.

"Dining indoors in a place that isn't a mountaintop fortress. How unusual," he says.

"Today's been strangely ordinary," Galen says. "Except for the assassination plot, I suppose."

He turns towards Dorian, who steps closer in response. Galen leans in and then they're kissing again, for the first time since Skyhold when Cullen's knock at the door interrupted everything. Galen opens his mouth and Dorian responds with a soft sound of pleasure. And yet it remains a gentle kiss — a slow, secret thing in the evening darkness. 

It only lasts for a moment before they break apart at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Not to intrude," Josephine says, "but the comte has been freed. And he wants us to leave his estate _immediately_."

"How ungrateful," Dorian says.

And once again, Galen sighs with frustration that something so good must end so soon.


	11. Crestwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corpses in Crestwood.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Skyhold

_Hypocrisy is a word that comes to mind lately._

_For all my past principled objections to acts of bribery and corruption, here I am, arranging to pay people off. And it often feels like the lesser of all evils. I think Leliana, if left unchecked, would have us assassinate everyone who stands in our way._

_And that's not how I want this Inquisition thing to go._

_The way I see it, every bribe and expediture related to Josephine, the House of Repose, and the Du Paraquettes is standing in service of preventing a death._

_I can live with that._

_But tonight — the bribe I requested had nothing to do with saving lives. And I ought to be more disappointed in myself because of it._

_I asked Josephine to secure a favor on behalf of the merchant Ponchard di Lieux._

_That doesn't only make me corrupt. It also makes me a liar. Because I said I'd have nothing to do with him._

_I have a suitable justification, of course. It's in the Inquisition's best interest that none of our highly skilled associates are able to be compromised by outside influences. As long as an Orlesian merchant remains in possession of Dorian's birthright amulet, it's an official risk. And I've now made a diplomatic move to neutralize that risk._

_And yet, that's not really why I'm doing this. I just want him to have it. It's rightfully his — and probably more important to him now that he's made some small amends with his father. I don't want him to worry about it anymore._

_But he doesn't know what I've done._

_And I ought to tell him._

_Of course, we're leaving for Crestwood in the morning and it's not the sort of conversation I want to have on the road in front of everyone we're traveling with._

_Instead what I'll do is what often comes so easily to me. I'll simply stop thinking about it for a while. Perhaps Crestwood will be like the Hinterlands — another gorgeous Ferelden landscape that captures the imagination and helps me forget about troublesome things._

_I could use some more of that._

* * *

**Crestwood, Day 115**

A slender figure rises from the water and staggers towards them. But between the rain and the darkness of the late morning storm, it's not easy to make out its features.

"That's one of them?" Galen asks. 

"It is undead, yes," Cassandra says from somewhere close behind him and off to his right.

"Fuck," he says.

He doesn't want to believe her at first, but as the creature stalks closer he can hear it moan and snarl. And then suddenly it picks up speed and charges him, its skeletal head pitching forward — with only darkness where its eyes once were.

"Oh, fuck, no," Galen says and swiftly backs away. 

But his retreat is useless, because suddenly there are corpses rising up all around them. Some emerge from the lake, while others claw their way up from shallow graves beneath the sand. 

Galen follows Dorian's lead and blasts one of them backwards with a steady stream of fire. But two more are on him now and he can smell the putrefaction up close as the bones of their fingers catch hold of his robes.

He panics, shoves one of them back, and then gets tangled up with the other one. Its hair is long and filthy and it's much too close to his face. He trips forward, dragged down by the writhing dead thing, and his mind goes utterly blank for one terrifying instant. But then Cassandra swoops in, pulls him back up, and pries the corpse off him. She bashes it down to the earth with her sword and shield. 

It doesn't move after that.

Galen recovers quickly, raising his barrier and falling back into a ready stance. He looks around for the next threat coming. But there's nothing else. The rest of the undead are pinned down by bolts from Varric's crossbow or burning away into nothing as they stumble through a wall of fire that Dorian has raised up in front of them.

Cassandra sheathes her sword and comes over to check on him. 

"You panicked," she says.

"I did," Galen says. No use pretending otherwise. He absolutely panicked. "First time I've had dead people trying to kill me." 

"They're not really people," Dorian says. "Think of them as spirits making a terrible fashion choice." 

He's been watching the water, but now turns towards Galen. Behind him, the lake is dark except for the eerie glow of a rift, located somewhere far beneath the surface. 

"We won't be free of them as long as that rift remains open," Cassandra says.

"How's your swimming, Inquisitor?" Varric asks. 

"It's like everything else," Galen says. "Better without corpses."

* * *

Cassandra remains concerned about Galen's state of mind. Even after he reassures her, she doesn't seem convinced. But there's work to be done, and she agrees that talking to the villagers of Crestwood is a good next step.

She relaxes markedly after they've taken down a second group of undead. 

Galen's back to his typical rhythm of well-timed attacks and graceful footwork. His renewed acumen proves to her what his words could not. Yes, he reacts badly sometimes. But he doesn't let that stop him. He figures out what needs fixing and then he adapts.

When facing the undead, he understands now that he needs to keep them at a distance for as long as possible — to scorch them with fire and then pick off the stragglers up close. He also needs to watch the ground beneath him so as not to be surprised and overwhelmed.

"Good," Cassandra says. "You seem to have recovered."

"Do keep doting on him, though," Dorian tells her. "I'm enjoying his frustrated pout of how much he wishes you wouldn't."

Cassandra laughs. 

And Galen pretends to be annoyed at this. Privately, he's pleased to see them getting along.

The teasing stops as they approach the village. Outside the gates, they find the bodies of several guards, recently killed, lying face down in the mud. Their attackers, the withered and skeletal undead, are heaped nearby. At first, the undead appear destroyed, a threat no longer. But as Galen and his companions draw near, the corpses arise.

Having learned his lesson, Galen checks the earth around him. Fortunately, no corpses are scrabbling their way up through the mud. But he does see a sword at his feet, dropped from a dead guard's hand. Foreseeing a use for it, Galen picks it up. As the undead swarm closer, he's ready with staff and sword.

Together with Dorian, he torches the further ones, which burn as they fall. 

When a corpse dodges the flames and darts towards him, the blade finds its purpose. A mace might do better, but a sword is what he has and what he knows. It helps that this corpse is old — a weathered, fragile thing with brittle bones that can't stand up to the force of a slicing impact.

He tears through several more this way, with his staff in one hand and the sword in the other. And when at last the undead horde is put to rest, Dorian gives him a disbelieving look.

"Hitting things like a common soldier? How barbaric." 

It sounds like a criticism, but Dorian's delighted grin betrays him. He looks intrigued. Galen expects a series of follow up questions from him, but Varric gets a word in first.

"So," he says, "the rumors are all true. The Inquisitor really does know his way around a sword."

Varric's suggestive tone makes the double entrendre all too clear.

"Varric, please," Galen says. He wrinkles his nose in disgust as he notices a scrap of rotten flesh clinging to his robes and endeavors to shake it free. "Less innuendo while we're knee deep in corpses."

"Right," Varric says. "Sorry about that. Sometimes I forget you're not Hawke."

* * *

By nightfall, they've slashed and burned their way through many more undead. They've also successfully challenged a group of bandits, taken over an old fortress, and begun the process of draining the lake. Plans for the following morning include exploring the caves below Old Crestwood to see if they can access the rift and then seal it. Doing so should put an end to all the corpse possessions. 

Galen is very much in favor of that.

For now, they've found a room with a hearth, and the four of them are sitting together, playing cards and drinking the whisky they reappropriated from the fortress' former occupants. Meanwhile, the Inquisition's scouts and spies are settling into other areas of the stronghold, clearing away the filth and corpses of bandits and remaking it into a clean, secure outpost.

"Well, I'm out," Galen says, throwing his cards face down on the table. Despite one early victory, he's been on a steady losing streak. "No coin left to bet."

"You can start taking off items of clothing next," Dorian suggests.

"In this cold and damp? I don't think so."

Dorian shifts his cards to his left hand and lifts his right, casting a spell to intensify the fire in the hearth behind him. The flames rise higher, burning bright and warm.

"Oh, look. It's warmer now," he says.

This makes Galen chuckle, but he's not about to lose his clothes over a card game.

"I'm still out," he says.

"If you burn through all our firewood, you'll be sorry," Cassandra says.

"Oh, is that a threat?" Dorian asks, idly. He seems unconcerned, reordering his cards and barely looking up at Cassandra.

They've been getting along well all day, chatting about necromancy and its role in Nevarran society — a conversation undoubtedly inspired by the horde of undead foes they've faced at every turn.

"Not a threat," she says. "A courtesy. You get colder than any of us, don't you? Therefore, if you burn through our firewood, _you'll_ be sorry."

Dorian laughs. "I can appreciate that."

"Even when she's being nice, it always sounds vaguely threatening," Varric says. "You start to get used to it."

Cassandra glares at him, and in response Varric rolls his eyes. Fearing another argument between them, Galen speaks up.

"So," he says to Cassandra. "Tell me more about the mages in your family. Are they all Mortalitasi?"

His question achieves its purpose, distracting her from the impending quarrel with Varric. Instead, she talks for a while about her uncle, a prominent death mage, though she claims not to understand her own country's fascination with death and dying. 

"But you don't object to the magical discipline?" Galen asks.

"Necromancy is not my favorite thing," she says, "but no, I don't disapprove. It isn't blood magic, after all. It provides a useful and powerful set of magical skills."

Galen looks pointedly at Dorian. "And you're trained in it? Why haven't you used it?"

"Oh, hadn't you noticed?" Dorian says, barely glancing up from his cards. "I'm not exactly well-regarded by your Inquisition. Not that I mind. But it seemed prudent to hold back on the death magic."

"I think you should use it whenever it will help," Galen says.

Dorian looks as though he might say more — and if he doesn't, Galen's ready with a follow up question. But Cassandra interrupts them both with a triumphant cry as she plays the winning hand.

"Shit!" Varric says. "Now I'm done, too."

Cassandra seems pleased to have taken the last of his coin. Her mood improves markedly.

And so they abandon cards in favor of whisky and words. The conversation drifts to various topics — speculation about what they'll find in the caves beneath Old Crestwood; memories from the Blight and what each of them were doing at the time, far away from it; nugs and their cuteness; nugs and their terrible flavor; nugs and their sly, creepy little feet; and most importantly, the meaning and pronunciation of several prominent curse words in Tevene. 

"That's right, now you've got it," Dorian says, laughing, after Galen correctly uses 'vishante kaffas' in a sentence.

As the drinks and laughter keep flowing, even Cassandra and Varric stop glaring at each other. They talk into the wee hours of morning, until they're all too tired for anything but sleep.

* * *

**Crestwood, Day 117**

Loghain.

Hawke's warden friend is _the_ Loghain, recruited into the Grey Wardens by none other than the Hero of Ferelden, over the protests of King Alistair — before he married Anora and became king, of course. 

Galen recalls all the details, but he never expected to meet the man in person.

Loghain turns out to be a dour, practical man, not prone to lighthearted humor. His grim disposition makes his fellow warden, Blackwall, seem positively full of sunshine by comparison. And Galen wonders how on earth Loghain manages to get along with someone like Hawke, who's quick to laugh and always has an off-color joke at the ready. 

It's an unlikely friendship, to be sure.

After talking with Loghain and Hawke, Galen comes away with the sense that the Inquisition's own warden-in-residence might be struggling more than he's let on. Whatever this Calling is about, it doesn't sound good. Galen plans to have a long chat with Blackwall as soon as he's back at Skyhold. 

Whatever the rest of the Grey Wardens are caught up in, Corypheus is involved, so it can't be good. 

But for now, there's another problem to focus on. 

Hawke promised the locals that she'd solve their dragon problem, but now she can't stay. The other wardens are intensifying their search for Loghain, and he plans to leave Crestwood within the hour. Hawke will travel with him to the deserts of western Orlais. She's very much hoping that the Inquisition can step up and handle that pesky old high dragon in her absence.

"Please tell me you're joking," Galen says.

But she isn't.

She claims she has just enough time to show them where to find this dragon. So she leads them towards it, chatting excitedly all the while.

"I've heard you killed a high dragon in the Hinterlands. Well done! Some people get all the good fortune."

"I wouldn't call it that, but yes," Galen says. "We've tackled one of the big ones so far."

"And soon you'll have killed your second!" 

"Unless it kills us first," Galen says. 

He's never in the mood for dragons. If it weren't for the existence of the Iron Bull — and now Hawke, as well — he wouldn't believe there was even such thing as a right mood for dragons.

Hawke turns to smile at him, and then stops for a moment, looking from him to Cassandra to Dorian, and then back again.

"Andraste's knickers, but the three of you are good looking people," she says. "If you'd been traipsing around Kirkwall ten years ago, I'd have let you join my cadre of beautiful friends."

Cassandra replies without missing a beat. 

"And I would have reported you to the Templars for harboring apostates."

"See," Varric says. "I told you she's no fun."

"Well, I wouldn't have reported you," Dorian says.

Before Galen can weigh in on the matter of Hawke and her apostate friends, Varric tugs Hawke's sleeve to catch her attention.

"Come on," he says. "All three of them would've tried to kill Daisy, so it wouldn't have worked out."

"Oh. Right," she says. "All the blood magic."

On that less-than-cheery note, their conversation ends. Hawke leads them over one last rise and then stops along the ridge.

"There's your dragon." She points down the hillside and far away towards the water. "Good luck with that."

She leaves them to handle it on their own. Just the four of them against a massive lightning storm of a dragon.

* * *

Much later that night, at the fortress, Galen sits by the hearth with a warm drink in hand. 

Cassandra is already sleeping, her nose pressed to the pallet on the floor. She snores a little with each drawn breath. 

Varric sits at the table, wielding a specialized set of implements to clean and oil his crossbow. He's quiet now, after having told several stories about Hawke and her enduring penchant for finding trouble.

Galen's quiet, too. He's thinking about the dragon, which wasn't as bad as the first one they faced. Their dragon-slaying tactics were much improved by starting things off with a powerful vortex of damaging energy, summoned from the Fade by the mark on Galen's hand.

It was no less of an exhausting fight, but it cost them less time and fewer injuries. He still thinks that scaring it away would have been a better option — but it's unfortunately not an option that works well with dragons.

He looks up at the sound of Dorian sighing out loud. He's been trying to read despite the dimness of the light, but now it seems he's given up in defeat. He shuts his book and tosses it onto the table.

"Come talk to me for a minute," Galen says.

"Oh? Just for a minute?" Dorian asks.

"Or more than that, if you'd like."

Galen watches him as he gets up, takes a blanket from the back of his chair, and sets it down by hearth. It's strange, he thinks, that he only met this man a couple of months ago. The time feels much longer than that. And yet there's so much they don't know about each other.

"What shall we talk about?" Dorian asks once he's settled in to sit beside Galen.

"Well," Galen says, easing his way into the question that's been on his mind since Dorian first mentioned it two days ago. "I'm curious about you and necromancy."

"It bothers you," Dorian says. And it's a judgment, not a question. He sounds certain in his assessment.

Galen shakes his head. 

"If you were as fascinated with corpses as Cassandra's uncle is, that might bother me," he says. "But I'm pretty sure you're not."

"Ah, yes, the many sordid tales of necromancy," Dorian says. "Look, the Mortalitasi are their own weird thing. And I can't really speak to that."

"I just wanted to hear about it from you," Galen says. "From your perspective."

Dorian stays quiet for a moment. He seems to be gathering his thoughts. But then he smiles in the soft, fond way that makes Galen's heart beat faster.

"If I talk about this," Dorian asks, "will you tell me about your bizarre, secret passion for hitting things with swords?"

Galen laughs. "That's a deal."

And so Dorian begins.

"Necromancy is formidable, yes, but it's not really about death and corpses," he says. "It's the magic of fear. And where I come from, fear is an art I'd have been remiss not to study. It turns out that I'm also quite good at it..."

For the next hour or so, Galen sits with the man he's so fond of, and they each share stories about their younger selves, and their many lessons learned through pain and failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have played Dragon Age 2 more times than any other game in the series and I unabashedly love chaotic purple Hawke.


	12. Skyhold (Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex. But mostly romance. Because here, we are soft.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Skyhold

_By every right, Dorian should be furious with me. Instead, he says he'll come see me this evening — which means something has worked in my favor._

_It was either the return of his amulet, which he explicitly asked me not to do. Or else it was the way I got annoyed with him when he expressed a legitimate concern — and then I more or less called him a tease._

_I admit, I was not at my best._

_I haven't had time to worry about it though. I've been busy all day. Everyone needs something from me right now._

_Dorian's worried people will think he's "the magister who's using me" — those were his words. But honestly some days it feels like every single person here has their unrealistic hopes pinned on me. I'm doing what I can, but I'm only one person._

_And I'm not sure I'm the best person for any of this. If I had died at the Conclave, if somebody else had lived instead, then maybe this would all be working out better than what it is._

_I can't know either way. All I know is that everyone trusts me because they think I'm Chosen — and I'm afraid to let them all down. I don't want to fail them._

_But enough of this._

_Worrying won't solve it and I have better things to think about. It's getting late and he'll be here soon. I'm nicely dressed, impeccably groomed — and hopeful._

* * *

**Skyhold, Day 122**

As soon as Galen wakes up, he remembers. 

With his eyes still shut, the whole night comes flooding back to him in a burst of vivid images and sensory detail.

_Kissing Dorian. Tasting him. Breathing him in, but not stopping there — instead pressing close and chasing the desire to be covered in his scent. Feeling the sweat rise to their naked skin with Dorian beneath him. Growing aroused to the point of delirium before acting to relieve it._

It's not confined to fantasy anymore. Last night really happened. They had their way with each other. And for a few minutes more, Galen luxuriates in reliving the memory.

_Galen pressing in, trembling and slow, and Dorian kissing him harder before practically hissing, "Oh, you wonderful man, you're good at this, too!"_

The ego boost alone is thrilling. He saw it all in Dorian's eyes, in the look on his face — he was utterly lost to the pleasure of sex with Galen. 

Though it wasn't enough for them to indulge just the one time. A couple of hours later, they began again — switched up this time, because Galen was ready for that, too. And he was not about to miss the chance to give and receive in equal measure.

Now, in the morning sunlight, he lies back in the cozy warmth of his bed and he remembers his favorite part out of all of it.

_Dorian holding him — taking him — and whispering, "Am I using you well enough now? Or do you still want to claim I'm all talk?"_

_Galen, unable to reply in full sentences, simply groaning with the pleasure of it._

_Dorian asking him, "You've needed this, haven't you?"_

_Breathing the answer, "Yes."_

_"Maker, so have I."_

_And after that, no more words. Only sex, wildly unrestrained and infinitely good._

He feels so overwhelmingly happy with every part of this memory that he's smiling as he opens his eyes. He expects to see Dorian in bed with him. But no. 

He's awake already and standing across the room, where he's gazing out the window — quiet and naked.

Galen's about to ask if everything's alright, but Dorian must hear him stirring, because he says something about how much he likes the room. He turns towards the bed, and Galen's struck, once again, by how beautiful he is.

But something _is_ wrong. As he sits down beside Galen, he looks concerned. It's as if some weighty thought has settled in his mind and he can't seem to shake it.

"You seem distracted," Galen says.

It's a simple observation. And it opens up a conversation that Galen hasn't anticipated at all. 

It's been obvious that Dorian's attracted to him. And he never thought to question it. But now, with a cold sense of dread, Galen realizes that he hasn't ever asked what Dorian wants from him. 

He doesn't actually know.

For one terrible pause between them, he fears that Dorian is done with him now. That perhaps he was only in it for the thrill of the conquest. (One of the other mages was like that at Ostwick, and Galen hadn't much cared — had gone to bed with him anyway — because he hadn't wanted anything emotionally complicated at the time.)

But this. 

_Oh, no_ , he thinks.

He doesn't want this to end so soon — and yet already so painfully.

He's suddenly not thinking of their many conversations, nor the easy rapport between them, but only asking himself, _How foolish have I been? How much have I misjudged?_

But then Dorian speaks again and sets his worries to rest. 

"I like you. More than I should. More than might be wise."

Galen realizes with palpable relief that this isn't a man trying to break things off — quite the opposite. Dorian's trying to protect himself because of how much he does care.

And all Galen can do is reassure him. Though he hardly knows how to put it in words.

Pleasure is wonderful, and Galen's pursued it as much as anyone. He certainly loves a fun night in bed. But what excites him so much this time is the depth of feeling that's already there, that he thinks could grow into something profound — and possibly life-altering. 

The best he can manage to say is, "I want more than fun, Dorian."

And it's a poor choice of words — he realizes as soon as he says it — because he doesn't mean to cast aspersions on relationships built around pleasure alone. There's nothing wrong with those. It's just that with Dorian, he couldn't imagine how that sort of arrangement would be satisfying for long.

Despite how awkward he feels, his words aren't actually the worst. They can't be. The relief on Dorian's face is a glorious thing to behold. Galen feels it like a moment of triumph. 

_He wants this, too._

And when Dorian invites him to have sex again, it feels just as physically exquisite as it did last night. But this time, it unfolds less like an athletic pursuit and more like a conversation. They talk a little more, laughing as they go, and it feels intimate in a way that makes Galen's heart ache with joy.

* * *

The council meeting drags on for more than two hours. 

Hawke's news about the Wardens gathering in the Western Approach isn't enough to act on. For now, they'll stick to the prior plan to try and safeguard the empire of Orlais. What that means, however, has been up for debate.

Cullen and Cassandra have been arguing in favor of Duke Gaspard's claim to the throne. On the other hand, Josephine and Galen himself are leaning firmly towards maintaining the status quo by ensuring Celene stays in power.

And it's not just that they don't agree on outcomes. Their thoughts on tactics are all over the map. 

Should they head straight to Halamshiral, and the Orlesian Winter Palace, in anticipation of peace talks? Or should they scout the Exalted Plains to see if they can assist the remaining forces of both sides? It's been rumored that rifts and demons have caused havoc enough. The Inquisition could win some much needed favor if Galen shows up to help without first picking sides.

To make matters worse, Galen finds it difficult to stay focused for more than ten minutes at a time. His thoughts keep drifting back to last night and this morning. And he's also anticipating this evening, when Dorian plans to join him again.

"Are you even paying attention right now?" Leliana asks him.

Under the scrutiny of her gaze, he feels like an adolescent child, called out for daydreaming during lessons.

"No," he says. "Sorry. I wasn't."

"Can you blame him?" Josephine says, speaking up in his defense. "We've been talking in circles. We're not making any progress whatsoever."

"You are the Inquisitor," Cassandra tells him. "Why don't you decide?"

"Fine," Galen says. 

He knows he's not the most savvy about politics, generally speaking. But he's heard more than enough about all the options before him. And he's more than ready to be done with this meeting. So, he simply decides.

"We'll close rifts in the Exalted Plains. Once we've actually done something to help Orlais, we'll be in a better position when the peace talks do get started. And this gives us more of a chance to assess what the Orlesians think about Gaspard and Celene."

"Alright," Leliana says. "I'll deploy our spies with the forward scouts. We'll prepare for you to leave in a few days."

* * *

Before his afternoon meeting with Fiona and Cullen — to discuss how the Inquisition's mages and templars are getting along — Galen steals a few minutes to go talk to Dorian. As expected, he finds him in the library. 

He's in the middle of translating a stack of Venatori documents from Tevene into the common tongue. And he's so engrossed in the work that he doesn't notice Galen's approach.

"I see Leliana's keeping you busy today." 

Dorian smiles at the sound of his voice and looks up from the page he's been working on.

"Oh, yes, look at that," he says. "You and your Inquisition, putting all my best talents to good use."

Galen grins back at him and sits down in the empty chair across the table. 

"I thought you might like to know, we'll be in Skyhold for another three days," Galen says. "And four nights."

"More time than usual."

"Spend it all with me?" Galen asks. He feels silly to be so eager. And yet there's no reason why he should hide it. "Every night?"

Dorian's gaze rakes over him in obvious appreciation. It's the sort of look that would be alarmingly objectifying if it weren't so completely welcome.

"I am _delighted_ to accept that offer." 

"Alright," Galen says. "I'll see you in a few hours."

As he gets up from the table, a vivid mental image reminds him exactly how much of Dorian he'll be seeing later on. He only wishes he didn't have to sit through several meetings first.

* * *

Every muscle in Galen's body feels completely relaxed. He's lying on his back in bed, fully naked. He's still overheated from all the exertion, but the balcony window is ajar and the cold air is welcome.

"Even better that time, I think," he says. 

It's saying a lot, because even the first time — last night — was very good. But by this fourth time they've both started to learn each other better. And the sex is becoming fantastic.

"Even better," Dorian agrees. And then he shivers. "What about closing that window?"

Galen groans.

"I'd have to get up. I don't think I can move yet. You sure you didn't hit me with a stun spell at the end there?"

"No," Dorian says, "but I could the next time if you'd like to play with that?"

It sounds like a serious offer.

"Let's keep the magic out of it for a while," Galen says. "I'm enjoying just you."

He gets up, stretches his back and shoulders, and goes to stand by the open window to cool off the rest of the way. Between the curtains and the height of the room compared to its surroundings, he's certain that no one out there can see him, despite the darkness outside and the candlelight within. 

He shuts the window and turns when Dorian calls him back to bed. 

"Oh, Maker, look at you," he says, pausing for a moment to appreciate the view. "Draped across my bed like that. If I weren't so fully spent, I'd be hard again at the sight of you."

Dorian sits up a bit more, leaning back on his elbows to support himself.

"You _like_ me," he says.

Climbing into bed beside him, Galen laughs, and then teases him.

"What gave you that idea? Too many cries of 'oh, Maker, yes, Dorian' for one evening?"

But Dorian isn't joking. He looks as though he's still grappling with some hidden concern.

"Despite all the evidence," he says, "it doesn't feel real. Could I be dreaming? Possibly. All of this — an illusion of the Fade?"

"It's real," Galen says.

"Yes." Dorian nods, but he still looks troubled, with a certain anxiety there in the way he looks at Galen. 

"This morning," he says. "After what I said about liking you more than I ought to, I was certain you'd want to end it."

"You thought that?"

"I imagined it rather vividly," Dorian says.

"Tell me," Galen says. He's curious, wants to understand this strange insecurity that he hadn't quite expected in a man as confident and boastful as this one.

Dorian sighs. He seems reluctant for a second, but then dives right in to the story of what he envisioned.

"You'd say it was best to leave it here — to not do this again. And so I'd gather my things. All the while, I'd attempt to conceal my wounded pride. As a parting shot, I'd insult your terrible curtains. And then I'd head straight to the tavern to drink myself into a miserable stupor."

"That's– ouch," Galen says. "Why did you think I'd want that?"

"Because I've learned not to hope."

He sounds so forlorn that, at first, Galen's not sure how to answer. Humor doesn't seem quite right. So he opts for something else — he tells the truth of how he feels.

"Alright, look," he says, "total honesty here. We are both still getting to know each other."

He reaches out, takes hold of Dorian's hand, and squeezes it as he continues talking.

"But whatever's between us, Dorian? It's real. And I want to keep following it to see where it goes."

"So do I," Dorian says. 

He smiles again, and it's just what Galen was hoping for. 

"And– Wait. What's wrong with the curtains?"

"Seriously?" Dorian says. "They're ghastly."

Galen chuckles.

"Okay," he says, grinning. "I'll have a word with Josephine. You want to hear about people being in my debt? She still owes me for the whole not-getting-assassinated thing. I can at least leverage that for some curtains you'll approve of."

Dorian leans in and kisses him. 

And for a minute that's all they do. Slow kisses with open mouths — such a gentle thing and yet the emotion behind it is powerful, a rising euphoria that Galen feels in his chest and belly. Embodied. Visceral. He'd forgotten it could be like this with someone.

"I don't actually care about the curtains," Dorian says as he pulls away from the kiss.

"Hah! Yes, you do," Galen accuses him.

"Alright. Yes. I do. But I'll put up with them for this."

"For sex?" Galen asks.

"No, Trevelyan," he says. "For you."


	13. Skyhold (Rumors)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It will set tongues wagging."

**Skyhold, Day 124**

Nothing stays secret at Skyhold for long. 

Not that Galen's trying to be particularly secretive. If he were, he wouldn't be walking the grounds at a slow saunter with Dorian very close beside him. The closeness is necessary, because without it, they might be overheard, and that would spoil the game.

"Loft level of that tower," Galen says, leaning in a little more and speaking quietly.

He touches Dorian's arm and then points to the tower he has in mind.

"Yes, alright, one point for that," Dorian says.

It's a game he hasn't thought about in years, but it seems appropriate now and it's the sort of ridiculous thing he's missed. So he suggested it as a more entertaining alternative than listening to Dorian criticize the soldiers' uniforms. 

The premise is simple and undeniably adolescent in its appeal: Walk through a given area and identify places where sex could be had — privately and uninterrupted for at least ten minutes — leaving no one else the wiser. Gain a point for each location agreed upon. 

There's no follow up involved, no action required or expected beyond looking at places and speculating. It's simply a fun chance to flirt.

"The small chapel near the garden," Dorian says.

"No!" Galen says. "No points. Cullen has his own key and goes in there at odd hours."

"Oh?" Dorian grins at him. He looks thoroughly delighted by this piece of information. "I didn't realize you were keeping such a close eye on the commander's whereabouts."

"I'm not," Galen says. "Cassandra's mentioned it to me, that's all."

"You've flirted with him, though, haven't you?" Dorian asks, delighting even more in this line of teasing inquiry. "Don't deny it."

"Not really," Galen says. 

"That's not a 'no.'"

"Alright," he admits. "During my first week at Haven I did say 'I'm very pleased to meet you, Commander' with a little more eye contact and enthusiasm than strictly necessary."

Dorian laughs. "Of course you did. I do remember meeting you myself. That's what you do."

"How else would I have known? It made him uncomfortable, so... question answered." Galen shrugs. "I tried to be polite and friendly after that — to, sort of, make up for it."

"Oh, no, you're missing out. You should absolutely keep flirting with him," Dorian says. "It's extremely entertaining."

Between the two of them, Galen notes, they have vastly different theories of flirting. Galen doesn't prefer to annoy people, nor to raise false hopes. Dorian has no such qualms. It's part of his charm, to be honest. 

"I'll leave that to you," Galen says, shaking his head but also smiling. "I, on the other hand, am trying to build up a friendly and professional rapport with the man."

"Ugh, how awful," Dorian says. "But where were we? Ah, yes, your turn again."

"Fine, last one," Galen says. By now they've reached the stairs to the main hall of the keep. 

"Let's go with..." He pauses for a second to consider his options. "...sex while seated on the throne."

"Hah!" 

Dorian exclaims loudly enough that several others in the yard turn to look at them. 

"No points," he says, "but obviously you knew that."

And so Galen has to explain that the game always ends with a reversal — the naming of an extremely public location where sex could never happen without things getting truly awkward for everyone.

And unfortunately, the game does have to end, because Galen has an afternoon filled with other tasks.

"I've enjoyed this and you are delightful," Dorian says before they part ways and each head off to their own respective set of responsibilities.

"See you tonight," Galen says. 

It feels wonderful to say that, but even more wonderful to look forward to another evening with Dorian — and another night of sex that's so quickly starting to feel like lovemaking.

* * *

He's been searching for Blackwall to no avail for the better part of half an hour, when one of the stablehands suggests that Galen check along the ramparts.

"I've seen him up there before. Mulling things over," she says. "He gets in these moods, you see."

Galen thanks her and heads for the stairs. 

Now that he's learned about the Calling, and the way Corypheus is manipulating it to drive the Wardens into his service, he's more concerned than ever about Blackwall. If the man is suffering greatly from this sirensong malady, it would go a long way to explain the heaviness he often seems to carry with him. And perhaps there's something the Inquisition — with its growing resources — can do to help.

He finds Blackwall looking out over the battlements, and he calls out a greeting so as not to startle the man. 

They chat for a short while about Loghain and the presence of other wardens at Crestwood. But when Galen asks to hear about the Calling, the only answer he gets is an almost dismissive reassurance that everything is fine. 

He thinks he understands. He's known people like this before — the ones who see every weakness as something shameful to be denied and kept hidden. And that's not very useful, Galen thinks. Weaknesses are just normal things. Everyone has them. Best to get comfortable with them and work on alternate strategies instead of expending all that energy on trying to cover things up.

But he knows he can't force the issue.

"If you ever do want to talk about it, I'm here," he says, and leaves it at that.

He's about to leave the ramparts altogether, when Blackwall asks him a question.

"Not really my business," he says, "but are you aware of what people here are saying?"

"Not sure," Galen says, keeping his answer non-committal despite being pretty sure he knows which rumors Blackwall means. "Depends on the day and the topic, really."

And that's true enough. Gossip about any number of topics swirls around Skyhold as constantly as the birds, flying loops around the high towers above them. It would be impossible to keep up with every rumor.

"I meant the ones about you and _Dorian_ ," Blackwall says, confirming that, yes, Galen's first guess was correct.

It almost makes him chuckle — the way even saying Dorian's name causes Blackwall to grimace as though he's smelling something rotten. It's highly likely that the only thing Blackwall has a problem with here is how much he dislikes Dorian personally. And that, in its own way, is reassuring.

Galen looks at him. "Oh? What are people saying?"

"Just... things. About the way you spend your time with him."

"Ah, got it. Those sorts of rumors."

"Is there truth to them?" Blackwall asks.

"That's difficult to answer without specific details."

Galen briefly considers telling him that if it's blood magic and mind control, then the rumors are false and he's sure they'll die out eventually. But if it's just about sex, then people can say what they want — and who really cares?

But the warden does seem to flinch at too much familiarity. So Galen opts to say less rather than more.

"I don't mind answering honestly if you have a pointed question for me."

"Ah, never mind then," Blackwall says. "You're a good man, Inquisitor. I don't mean any disrespect. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Don't worry about it," Galen says. 

But privately, he wonders how many more items could possibly be on this list of topics that Blackwall doesn't wish to discuss.

* * *

He has a stack of reports to read, compiled by Josephine and Leliana. Within their pages is everything he needs to know about Orlesian politics and the imperial court. 

"Commit all of this to memory," Leliana told him the other day as she handed over the intimidatingly thick pile of documents, "or the nobility will tear you to pieces."

He's grateful that she's given him time enough to review everything thoroughly. He'll take it all with him on the road to the Exalted Plains. But since he's always been a reasonably good student — and old habits die hard — he's getting started on it early. 

He's sitting comfortably on one of the balconies in the keep's upper level. He's got a nice chair, a little table, and he's eating a generous slice of sweet custard pie, which he grabbed from the kitchen moments ago. All in all, it's not bad for a study session. And better than a council meeting by a longshot.

"I trust you're enjoying yourself, my dear?" 

It's Vivienne's voice from right behind him. She's remarkably stealthy when it suits her. And of course she would catch him _right now_ , with his mouth full and the last bite of pie crust in hand.

Her greeting, no doubt, is deployed to critique his behavior. He's fairly certain he's violating at least two or three standards of proper decorum by sitting here, in a relatively public space, and eating a dessert while poring over documents.

"The custard is delicious," he says after he's finished chewing and is again able to speak politely. "I highly recommend it."

She laughs, melodious and clear. 

"No, darling, I don't mean whatever it is you're doing at this moment." 

She walks to the balcony and then turns to face him, resting her elbows gracefully against the high railing behind her. 

"I'm referring, of course, to your not-so-clandestine affair with your Tevinter companion."

 _Of course_ , he thinks, _I should have known._

Fortunately, he _has_ anticipated this conversation. With Vivienne, it was bound to happen sooner or later. And it's probably best to get it over with sooner.

He sets down the pie crust, resting it on the plate he took from the kitchen. He wants to make his point without being needlessly rude. And it's a notable breach of etiquette to be caught with food in hand while one's conversation partner has no food of their own. 

He can play by her rules when he wants to.

"It's not an optimal situation, politically speaking," he says. "I do understand that."

"Not well enough. If your goal has been to sabotage your own image, well done. Otherwise, what were you possibly thinking?"

She isn't playing word games or dancing around the issue. And that's a good thing, he's sure of it. The candor of her criticism means she respects him enough to deliver it to his face in a forthright manner.

"Vivienne, I'm sorry," Galen says. "But this _is_ among my priorities. And I don't foresee that changing."

"Oh?" She stops, blinks, and sounds surprised. 

It's rare to see her fall speechless in response to anything. She recovers quickly, of course, but the significance of the moment isn't lost on him. 

"Then this is no trifling dalliance based on his fashionable good looks and your lack of other options?"

"No, it isn't that."

"I see. And I admit, I did not realize." 

She pauses for a second, as though carefully considering her next words. 

"I'm not in favor," she says. "You know I couldn't possibly be. But I will withhold further commentary of my own, and endeavor to silence rumors where they appear. That's the most I can offer."

"That's more than I'd hoped for, to be honest."

She smiles at him with what seems — to Galen, at least — to be a sad sort of kindness. 

_So_ , he thinks, _she has a heart, after all._

He's glad to catch a glimpse of it for once.

* * *

By late afternoon, he's starving again. Fortunately, the tavern's rich, hearty stew tastes delicious today. He devours it along with a dark, buttered bread that's also quite good. 

He's finishing the last of it when the Iron Bull pulls up a chair and joins him at his table.

"Boss, I need to know," he says. "Are the rumors true?"

There's a sorrowful lilt in Bull's tone of voice that makes Galen's heart sink. 

"Which ones?" he asks, but he knows exactly which rumors Bull is talking about — and these, for once, have nothing to do with Dorian.

"The ones where you killed a dragon without me."

He doesn't have to say anything in reply. The look on his face must give away the whole truth of it. 

"Damn it!" Bulls says, and he hits the table with his fist for emphasis.

But after his initial frustration fades, he perks up again and asks to hear the story. He wants to know everything: What the dragon looked like, the way it fought, the blow-by-blow details of the battle at every stage, and lastly, how it felt to slay the great beast.

Bull seems satisfied with all of Galen's answers, except for the ones about how it felt. 

"So, you're saying it didn't get your blood pumping faster? It didn't thrill you deep down to your bones?" 

Bull clenches his hand into a massive fist and grins. He looks thrilled himself, just from thinking about dragon-killing.

"In a terrifying way, maybe?" Galen says. "Look, I think the two of us have a different emotional landscape when it comes to dragons."

Bull shakes his head.

"Yeah, the fact that you just used the words 'emotional landscape'? That's a pretty big sign that you and I have a different emotional landscape."

Galen laughs. 

"Tell you what," he says. "The next time I fight a dragon, I'll try to do better at appreciating the experience. Just for you."

"Nah, forget that," Bull says. "Bring me with you the next time. That's all I need from you, boss."

"Alright," Galen agrees. "I'll make sure of it."

"Good."

Bull starts to get up, but then seems to change his mind about something. He pauses and looks back at Galen.

"Have a drink with us," he says. "The Chargers are all here and so far you've only met Krem."

"I'd love to."

And for the next hour, he sits down with Bull's team and gets to know them all a little better.

* * *

There's a knock at his door, and Galen's not sure who it could be. It's early evening and he's told Dorian just to come in whenever he arrives. No need to wait. 

He opens the door to find Cassandra, standing there with an enormous book in her hands.

"This is for you," she says, and pushes the book towards him. "We can talk about it later. I'll leave you now."

She turns to leave, but Galen stops her with a word.

"Wait."

She looks at him.

"Come in for a minute. Tell me what this is," he says, holding the book.

"Oh," she says. "I didn't know if you'd be alone and I didn't wish to interrupt."

"Just come in already."

And she sighs, but follows him up the stairs and over to his desk, where he sits down with the book and opens the cover to the title page.

"The Way of the Knight-Enchanter," he says. "It's a magical training manual?"

"Yes," she says. "I thought — but only if you wanted–" She holds up her hands, palms bared to show, perhaps, that she's not trying to force anything on him. "We could hire someone to work with you. Someone to teach you more. The book is just a start."

"Cassandra," he says. "What brought this on?"

He's not to sure what to make of it — the Seeker, of all people, giving him a book of advanced magic. But he wants to understand.

"Watching you fight off the undead with a borrowed sword, it gave me this idea," she says. "You would be formidable indeed with a blade summoned by magic."

He takes a moment to quietly let that sink in as he examines the book on his desk. He flips through a few pages and sees that it's old, but well cared for. 

"Let me see if I understand this," he says, glancing up at her. "You want me to become an even more powerful mage than I am already?"

"I know," she says. Her brow furrows as she frowns. "It doesn't sound like me at all. And yet, here we are."

"Life is strange like that sometimes," he says. "Full of unexpected things."

He turns his left hand over, revealing the rift mark on his palm. He's grown accustomed to it. He doesn't even think of it anymore when he isn't fighting demons and closing rifts. Yet its presence has changed almost every aspect of life — in some difficult ways, but also some good ones.

"Of course," she adds, "becoming a Knight-Enchanter will require a great deal of mental disclipine. And that is something I can always approve of." 

"That does sound more like you, yes," he agrees.

She laughs.

From outside he can hear laughter as well, faint and distant, rising up from the grounds far below. He ought to shut the balcony window, he reminds himself, before Dorian arrives and complains of the cold.

"Cassandra," he says. "Thank you. This is thoughtful. And yes. I'd like to work with a trainer, when time permits."

She smiles.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she says. "Take good care of the book. I took it from Vivienne and she might want it returned to her someday. Provided she notices that it's gone."

Galen laughs, in delight and disbelief, at the thought of Cassandra stealing a book from anyone, let alone Lady Vivienne.

"Well, thanks for the warning," he says. "I've been trying to stay in her good graces, but it's been a struggle lately."

"Oh? Did she speak with you? About personal matters?" Cassandra looks suddenly worried, and her voice wavers. "I told her not to."

"She did. It was fine." He tilts his head, gives her a look that's both quizzical and teasing. "Are you looking out for me, Seeker?"

"I simply reminded her that this is not the Orlesian court. And here we don't wield rumors and private information against each other."

"I appreciate that," Galen says. 

"I will see you later, my friend." And with that, Cassandra leaves him.

A short while later, when Dorian arrives, Galen is still at his desk, smiling to himself as he leafs through the pages of Vivienne's stolen book.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Skyhold

_This morning, as we lay in bed, I held him in my arms. He said it was strange that he likes this part — the quietly being held part of things — as much as he likes having sex with me._

_I told him that's how it is when you're starting to fall in love with someone._

_"Oh?" he said. "Is that what we're doing?"_

_I answered that yes, it feels like it to me._

_He didn't say anything else after that, but I could feel him relax against me even more. And he sighed in a way that sounded happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took time away from this one to write an unrelated-to-this-universe E-rated ficlet with a Trevelyan/Dorian +/ Bull premise. Go read it, too, if that's your thing. If not, no trouble at all.


	14. Skyhold, The Road & The Exalted Plains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Affection, sorrow, and love. This chapter is all about feelings, and the steady, satisfying pace of a romance unfolding.

**Skyhold, Day 126**

Galen wakes to the sound of loud, insistent knocking at the door to his quarters. 

"Shit," he says, hopping from bed with enough momentum to shake the mattress and rouse Dorian from a deeper sleep than his own.

"We're late."

He scans the room for his trousers — which were only worn briefly last night — swiftly abandons that objective when he can't spot them anywhere, and then grabs a different pair from the dresser.

He doesn't bother with a shirt, nor pause long enough to confirm whether Dorian is also getting out of bed. Instead he pulls on his trousers and buttons them up as he crosses the room. He dashes down the stairs to open the door, which is still being knocked on.

Cullen stands on the other side, his fist paused mid-air, interrupted by the door opening before he could knock again.

"You're late," he says.

"Overslept," Galen replies. 

He runs his hand through his hair to try and tame a few of the more noteworthy flyaway bits. 

"You're not even dressed."

"Well, I don't sleep with clothes on," Galen says with a bit of an edge to his voice, as though that should be obvious to everyone. 

But apparently it's not, because Cullen looks mildly distressed to hear it.

"I didn't need to know that."

Galen's about to shut the door with a promise that he'll be ready in a moment, when a question occurs to him.

"Commander, why is it always you who comes to fetch me? Surely you have more strategic tasks than this?"

This is, in fact, the third time Cullen has showed up at his door when he's been needed for a meeting or other engagement. It's only the first time Galen's been late, however; so he doesn't feel too badly about it. The prior two instances were unplanned and unforeseen.

"Leliana finds it amusing to send a templar in search of the missing mage," Cullen says.

Judging by the look on his face, he doesn't find it particularly amusing himself. 

"The fact that I'm a former member of the Order doesn't seem to factor into it for her."

"Ah," Galen says. "I suppose I can see the humor in that. I am an apostate, after all."

Cullen sighs. And then he looks past Galen to try and see up the stairs behind him.

"Can I safely assume that Dorian's with you or do I need to go wake him up as well?"

"He's–"

"Here, Commander." 

Galen turns at the sound of Dorian's voice and sees him descending the stairs wearing only a loose tunic that falls just above mid thigh. When he reaches the lower landing, he catches hold of Galen from behind, slides one arm around his waist, and stands with his chin resting on Galen's shoulder.

He's seems to be reveling in the chance to show off the intimacy between them. And Galen, who's normally much more private about his personal life, finds to his surprise that this doesn't bother him at all. He leans back, just enough to press against Dorian in a way he hopes will convey his affection.

"I hear you're rounding up mages," Dorian says. "Do be gentle with me, please."

That seems to be the limit of what Cullen wishes to endure with good humor.

"I'll trust you to round yourself up," he says, rather gruffly.

But then he winces in a way that seems due to some physical pain rather than mere annoyance. He draws a breath through gritted teeth and covers his eyes for a moment, rubbing them as if to fight off a headache.

"Are you alright?" Galen asks.

"No," he says, then changes his answer. "Yes. Never mind. Just be ready to leave as soon as you can."

"Just a few minutes," Galen assures the commander as he shuts the door.

Then he leans further back against Dorian, who responds by wrapping both arms around him and squeezing. It's a playfully strong embrace that makes Galen laugh. He'd prefer to respond by initiating some healthy, good-natured wrestling — which would ideally lead to other activities best accomplished back in bed. But alas, they don't have time for that.

* * *

**En route to the Exalted Plains, Day 126-131**

Setting out on the road feels different this time. 

Now that he and Dorian have spent five very intimate nights — and subsequent mornings — enjoying a variety of pleasurable acts, Galen has a lot to reflect on.

Romantic intimacy can be tricky. Taking a few days away from it to think and evaluate might be a good thing.

Of course, he isn't actually away from Dorian. They're still on the road together — talking and laughing and being subjected to a good deal of friendly teasing by the rest of their companions. They're just stepping back from all the sex for a while.

Or so he believes on their first day of traveling.

By the fourth night at camp, Galen's once again aching for close physical contact. He's been spoiled with it and now that he can't bring Dorian to bed with him, he's feels the loss rather keenly.

And the desire is clearly mutual. 

Once the others have settled in for the night and begun to fall asleep, Dorian gets up from his bedroll, circles the fire, and sits down beside Galen.

"Did you hear that?" he asks. "A strange noise from over that way. Perhaps you and I should have a look."

There was no noise, of course. And from the soft, suggestive tone of his voice, Galen can tell that Dorian has other ideas in mind.

"Yes, I suppose I should go with you. Not a good idea to wander away from camp on one's own."

Varric, who's got the first shift keeping watch, is sitting nearby on the weathered remains of a fallen tree. His crossbow rests against the log beside him and he caresses it gently.

"Andraste's tits, really?" He shakes his head. "Just don't let anything sneak up on you while you're off... doing whatever. Cassandra will literally kill me if anything happens to her precious Inquisitor."

Thus warned, Galen gets up and follows Dorian down a nearby path through the trees.

They walk a short while, moving up a low hill, but find nowhere to exit the path. It's a dirt trail, washed away and eroded lower than the ground on either side. Broad-leafed evergreen shrubs flourish there along the path, forming a thick, impenetrable wall of greenery. 

It offers privacy enough.

Galen catches hold of Dorian's hand and pulls him backward — stopping his forward momentum and spinning him around into an embrace that Dorian immediately turns into a kiss, as well. Galen smiles against his mouth for a second or two before he reciprocates. 

It's such a relief to have a taste of him after several days without. 

Galen doesn't waste any time. With his hands on the buckle of Dorian's belt, he drops to his knees. They can't make a mess of each other out here — not when there's no good way to clean up. Fortunately, he knows the perfect way to work within that constraint.

He uses his mouth to bring Dorian some relief and enjoyment. And then Dorian is eager to return the favor.

"I was desperate for this," Galen says afterwards, when they're both on their feet again with trousers buttoned up and belts rebuckled.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want to," Dorian says, as they start their walk back to camp. "You seemed in a mood yesterday." 

"Introspective, I suppose."

"Hmm."

Galen looks away, at the dark leaves of the plants, glossy under the moonlight. 

"I haven't done this in a while," he says, "and I don't want to — I don't know — make a mess of it."

 _This._

He doesn't want to call it a relationship yet — it feels too soon. Though it's so close to being one and he's aching for it to get there. He's afraid that if he pushes too fast or holds on too tightly, he'll crush the life out of it before it even gets a chance to grow. 

But he doesn't need to say any of that. Dorian's clever enough to read into it, or else he simply responds to the expression of worry behind Galen's words.

"Ah. Reassuring, actually," Dorian says. "You _do_ have insecurities just like the rest of us."

"One or two."

* * *

Back at camp, Varric is no longer alone. Cole sits beside him, the wide brim of his hat hiding so much of his face that only his lower lip and chin are visible.

"Well, sure, kid. We'll work on it," Varric tells him. 

He glances towards the path as Galen and Dorian return to camp, but then he returns his attention immediately to Cole.

"Work on _not_ saying?" Cole asks. "Not _words_?"

"That's right," Varric says in a steady tone, soothing and affirming. "If you can't stay out of my head, at least try not to tell the whole world about it. Right?"

" _Is_ it right?" Cole asks.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Varric looks up again now that his talk with Cole is over. 

"Well, look who's back," he says. "Let me guess, no bandits or Venatori or vicious wild animals out there?"

"I was mistaken," Dorian says. "Nothing to worry about after all."

Cole lifts his head, raising the brim of his hat and focusing his large, pale eyes on Dorian. He opens his mouth, as if to give voice to some private thought he's just found. But then he glances at Varric and purses his lips without saying a word.

"There you go, kid," Varric says. "Good job."

* * *

**The Exalted Plains, Day 132**

The Exalted Plains stink of burnt and rotting flesh. It gets bad enough near the ramparts that Galen pulls his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth. It doesn't work perfectly to keep out the stench, but it's better than nothing. 

It makes him think of Val Royeaux, where the nobles ornament themselves with decorative masks that serve no useful purpose. The air they breathe is clean, untainted by fire and death. War, like everything else, is a game to them. And the wealthiest hegemons toss other people's children into the fire pits of the battlefront whenever it suits them politically.

In the midst of so much loss and desolation, the thought of that rich, gilded city makes him rage. But that's not a very useful line of thinking. The politics and peace treaties will all come later. For now, the practical work takes precedence. 

Galen and his companions have much to do — ranging across the plains to fend off demons, close rifts, and rescue partisans on both sides of the insurrection.

* * *

They come to a burnt out village near the river, where wolves scavenge the corpses of the recently dead. Most of the bodies are charred beyond recognition, but by size alone it's obvious that some of them were children.

"I hope this was demons," Galen says, as he tries to wrangle back an unexpected flare of his emotions. 

"Why would you hope that?" Cassandra asks.

"Because," he says, "what monster of a person kills a child?" 

In such a short time, he's grown accustomed to all the death, all the killing. But this is different somehow. And the rest of the team seems affected, as well — with Blackwall looking particularly shaken.

Galen needs to step away for a minute, to pull himself together. But he also needs something else to focus on — a new strategy, a way to make the work feel easier for everyone. He gestures for Cassandra to come with him as he walks to the edge of the river.

"We still have a lot of ground to cover," he says. "I think we should split up. You lead one group and I'll take the other. We'll meet back at the scouting camp by sunset."

Cassandra agrees with his tactics. They've brought a large enough group and if they divide up everyone by skill and function, it shouldn't be difficult to move through the countryside and clear the remaining ramparts more quickly. Lacking a way to close rifts, Cassandra promises to keep her team far from them.

"We'll mark them for you and return tomorrow to close them," she says.

And with that assurance in place, she takes Blackwall, Varric, Vivienne, and Dorian. Galen sets off in another direction with Sera, Bull, Solas, and Cole. 

Though he'd love to have Dorian with him, he's trying to divide up the mages in a way that keeps the peace. 

Vivienne is troubled deeply by Cole. She tries to hide her true feelings beneath a veneer of scornful commentary, but Galen can see she's afraid. It would be cruel of him to put them on a small team together. 

And Cole seems happiest to trail along after Solas like a gaunt, pale shadow. Galen doesn't plan to separate them.

And so pairing himself up with Dorian would be nice, but selfish. He contents himself with the knowledge that they'll be fighting alongside each other again soon enough. And he does look forward to that, because they've become even better together lately in a fast-paced fight.

* * *

"Please," Solas says. "Help my friend."

The friend in question is a giant, angry-looking demon, held captive on the plains by a circle of magical wards.

"No blighted way," Sera says. "You're not really going to free that thing, are you?" 

"I agree, boss. Bad idea," Bull says.

It _is_ a bad idea. 

But Galen wants to know whether Solas is right. If he's wrong — if Galen frees this demon and then he has to subdue and destroy it — then he'll know he ought to take all the rest of Solas' advice as potentially misguided. 

He almost wants that to happen. 

So much of what Solas tells him about spirits and the Fade is contrary to everything he's learned at the Circle. It would be so much easier if he could write it all off as wishful thinking on the part of a strange loner of an elf.

But in his heart, Galen's pretty sure that however strange Solas is, he also knows what he's talking about.

"You two stay back," he says to Bull and Sera. "We're going to try this carefully."

The wards come down easily once they get started. Solas clears several of them with a cleansing spell, while Galen disables the rest with lightning.

Once the last ward is gone, the effect is immediate — and just as Solas predicted. The demon shrinks down, changes before their eyes into a harmless spirit. It's been severely damaged, and it begins to fade away into nothingness, but it holds on long enough to speak with Solas and to thank him.

And Galen has questions — so many questions that he wants Solas to answer for him. 

But there's no time for that. A group of mages emerges from their hiding spot nearby, and Solas is in such a rage at what they did to his friend that Galen has to intervene before he strikes them down where they stand.

After that, Solas leaves. He needs to be alone for a while, he says, and Galen lets him go.

* * *

In the absence of Solas, Cole drifts more frequently into the private thoughts of the others. Bull puts up with it remarkably well, but Sera does not.

As sunset approaches, they return to camp. And there at the margins of the tents, Galen pulls her aside to apologize. He feels responsible. Cole is still here because of him.

"Just keep him away from me!" 

Sera snaps at him and then stalks off to find Blackwall near the fire. Moments later she's sitting down with him, laughing as she steals a piece of roasted meat from his fingertips and pops it into her mouth. 

It seems she'll be alright. 

But Galen makes a mental note to keep Cole away from both Vivienne and Sera. That complicates things, because he's also been trying to keep those two away from each other. Nearly every conversation between them has an edge of animosity to it that Galen doesn't wish to let flourish.

Cassandra interrupts his weary thoughts by thrusting a plate of food into his hands. 

"You look famished. Eat."

And she's right. He's hungry and tired. The day has been overwhelming, and the depressing landscape of fire and death is starting to wear on him. 

He eats his meal standing further from the fire than the rest of his companions. But gradually, he's drawn back in by the rising volume of their conversation and the laughter that springs up among them.

Varric tells a story about Hawke, and this time Cassandra is grinning to hear it. She asks a question — and for once, it isn't accusatory.

"Was that before or after Hawke took on those vicious mercenaries?"

"You mean Ginnis and the Winters?" Varric says. "Maker's ass, don't remind me, Seeker, that fight nearly killed me."

But he's laughing, too, and it's good to hear the two of them getting along much better than they have in weeks. 

Then Bull reminisces about a café in Minrathous. And Dorian knows the exact one he means. As they talk and laugh about it together, Galen sighs with relief to see those two getting along. He's grown so tired of the harsh words and squabbling. 

He appreciates it when everyone tries to be friends with each other.

* * *

The fire burns low.

Harding's scouts keep watch at the periphery of camp, so there's no reason for Galen to still be awake and watchful. But he's sitting with Dorian, comfortable and quiet, and he's not ready for that to end.

Nearby, Varric chats with Cole. This time, he's trying to teach him about jokes and how to tell them — as a potential alternative to invasive mind reading. After yet another failed attempt in which Cole still doesn't understand the concept or the execution of a punchline, Dorian interrupts to ask a question.

He's curious about how Cole uncovers people's memories, whether it's random or if he chooses particular thoughts that he likes.

Cole shakes his head.

"I don't choose."

He tries to explain how it works. The hurts and the painful things call out to him. He sees flashes of memory and emotion whether he wants to or not. 

And then, without warning, Cole plucks an image from Dorian's mind and speaks it out loud. 

It's the name of a man — Rilienus — and a string of other words that don't quite fit together, but somehow manage to express the feelings of desire and regret. Listening to him, Galen's left with a vivid impression of sorrowful, unfulfilled longing.

"I'll thank you not to do that again," Dorian says, sounding curt and very serious. 

Galen turns to look at him, to try and catch his eye, but Dorian stares intently into the fire. 

"Aw, come on, kid. What did we just talk about?" 

Varric's voice sounds far off, though he hasn't gone anywhere. It's simply that all of Galen's focus is devoted to Dorian. He wants to say something — to offer a comforting word — but he's not sure what that would be. So he waits, silently watching, until Dorian looks at him at last.

"Take a walk with me? Not far." Dorian speaks softly, for Galen's ears alone. "I'd like to get away from camp."

Galen nods his assent, and then gets up. As he follows Dorian past the fire and around a line of supply crates, he can still hear Varric and Cole.

"Come on, kid, I think you've done enough for one day. Let's get you to sleep — or whatever it is you do."

"I listen to the songs," Cole says. 

"Weird, but alright..."

That's the last Galen hears as Varric's words fade out and are replaced by the evening sounds of small animals nearby — and larger, fiercer creatures in the distance.

He looks ahead into darkness. As his eyes adjust to the moonlight he sees the towering ruins of an arch that spans the road — the last remnant of a ruined bridge or other structure. 

Wordlessly, they both walk towards it. As soon as they've passed the archway wall, Dorian stops walking, pushes Galen back against the stone, and then kisses him. 

He's caught off guard at first, but it only takes a second to catch up. He responds to the kiss with all his usual enthusiasm. Dorian gasps, shifts his hips, and makes sure to let Galen feel that he's growing hard already. But then he pulls back abruptly, prying himself away from the contact he still so clearly desires. 

"I didn't want you to hear all that," he says. "Back there, what Cole said..."

His voice trails off. He sounds so troubled and alone with it.

"Cole can't read me," Galen says, speaking to fill the silence, but also because it feels right to offer up something personal of his own — to make things even, if he can. "The mark is too bright. He says it blocks out what's behind it." 

He holds up his left hand, turns it till the rift mark is revealed by the moonlight. At times like this — when it's dormant and unawakened — it could be any other scar. 

"But if he could dip into my head, he'd find old hurts attached to old names there, too. I think we all have those."

Dorian shakes his head, and gives up a laugh that doesn't sound joyful in the least.

"You talk as though you know how it is, but trust me on this, please — you don't."

They're bitter words, and bitterly spoken. But beyond that, Galen doesn't quite follow. He feels perhaps not smart enough to understand whatever Dorian is getting at, whatever's making him so upset.

"So tell me," Galen says. 

He has no idea if his request will be met with an answer or if it will only trouble Dorian further.

It seems to do both. 

"I've had more sex than you, you know. I'm sure of it. And with a lot more people."

It's a bizarre answer. Galen's about to ask why something like that should even matter, when Dorian speaks again.

"But you've been _loved_. And I've never had that." 

Suddenly, it makes more sense. It's so completely unexpected and also so terribly obvious that Galen forgives himself for not seeing it — even as he's berating himself for his own obliviousness.

It's envy, yes — but nothing so simple as that alone. There's a lot more going on, and it's all there in that one significant memory. 

_Rilienus_. The name of a man — one hurt, one regret, one important person in Dorian's life — but it also encompasses more. It's his desire to be loved, deeply and reciprocally. It's his sorrow in knowing that what he wants must always remain hidden and just out of reach. And perhaps it's also the dissonance of rather suddenly being offered so much of what he could never have before.

Galen's not sure if there's anything he can do or say that will make this easier. But he thinks it's important to resolve any misconceptions by telling Dorian the truth — even if it hurts more than it comforts.

"I've been close to a few people, yes," he says. "But there was only one that I loved. And I did love him deeply."

"Of course you did," Dorian says, as if there should be no question, as if that's simply what Galen does. "And then what? You woke up one day and it was done? Got in a terrible fight or something? Oh no, better call it quits?"

Galen's stays silent a moment to gather his thoughts. 

Dorian looks quite upset. He's asking about the past, yes, but it also feels like a question about the present and future — about what kind of man Galen is, and how it will be for the two of them.

No sense dancing around it. He gets right to the point. 

"It changed," Galen says. "Because he's Tranquil now. He's been Tranquil for fifteen years." 

His words hit like a spell, wiping away hostile glyphs to cleanse the ground. Dorian shuts his eyes, looks pained to hear it.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." He whispers beneath his breath, almost too quiet for Galen to hear.

"His name is Marcus," Galen says. "I write to him sometimes, and tell him little things about my life. The weather. The plants I've seen in my travels. To be honest, they're the stupidest letters." 

He can't help it, he smiles — even laughs a little at the thought of Marcus puzzling over every letter. No matter how much he strips them down to the bare facts, he's sure he's still flooding the poor man with a baffling surplus of emotion.

"He doesn't love me," Galen adds. "He can't anymore. But I think, in his own way, he appreciates that I exist. And that's not the worst thing."

What he doesn't say is that it used to be the worst thing. Being tolerated in place of being loved, it nearly broke him. But that was years ago. It's an old hurt now, and in the intervening years, he's come to value what little is left — on its own terms, for what it is, and not for what he wanted it to be.

"I feel like an ass for even–" Dorian shakes his head, looks down at the broken paving of the ancient road they stand on. "I imagined you had all these chances and threw them away. Carelessly perhaps."

"I won't be careless with you," Galen says.

Dorian looks up again. He's speechless for several seconds, perhaps thrown off balance by such a direct reply. He never seems to expect it. But then his words catch up with him again, and he's restored to his usual self — with his charming flair for the dramatic still intact.

"Does it have to feel like this?" he says, thumping his hand to his chest as though he's been struck by a spell or an arrow. "Like I'm wounded and bleeding all over you?"

Galen grins and laughs — just a bit — at the melodrama.

"Yes. But it's worth it."

"I'm trusting you on this, Trevelyan. Don't make me regret it."

His choice of words is harsh and wary, but the way he says them is achingly soft. He steps closer, too, until he's in Galen's arms again, being held close, caressed, and showered with affection.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Field notes, The Exalted Plains

_I haven't said as much, and probably won't for a while. For now it's enough that I know it myself._

_I'm in love with him._


	15. Halamshiral (Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter changes the story rating from M to E. If you want to skip the explicit parts, you can use this link to bypass the explicit sex.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Notes from the field, Halamshiral

_Duke Gaspard endeavors to buy our favor. Not only has he invited us as his guests to the Winter Palace, he's also providing us with a nearby furnished estate, free of charge, to use as we wish for a few days before and during the peace talks._

_I'm not sure we ought to have accepted so much from him, but our options are limited. Our contingent is weary from the road. Half of us have ridden directly from the Exalted Plains, while our advisors and their people have hastened from Skyhold to meet us._

_The masquerade ball is tomorrow evening, preceding the talks, and we do need a place to rest and clean up from the road before we can attend. Also, the estate is exquisite. I can't say I'm sorry to be making such thorough use of the Duke's ambitions._

_And that's not all I plan to make use of._

_I've been given an elegant room in a private wing. The bed is more than sufficient for two and I don't think we'll need to worry about being overheard._

* * *

**Halamshiral, Day 138**

Galen enjoys giving pleasure. He likes watching the look on his partner's face when the moment hits. It steals away all thought and reason, leaving only the rapturous sensation of climax. 

The more he cares about someone, the better he enjoys it. 

And right now — as he locks eyes with Dorian to watch the final throes as his pleasure crescendoes and breaks — it's almost too much. Dorian breathes through it, trembling and crying out, and Galen almost comes as well. But he staves it off somehow, withholding his own release so as to do what Dorian has asked of him.

He abandons his previous rhythm of steady, shallow thrusts — chosen for hitting the spot that makes Dorian gasp and moan — and he pushes in further, until he's sheathed all the way. And then he asks a question. He wants to make sure that what he's going to do next is still what Dorian wants from him.

"You'll tell me if it's too much? I don't want to hurt you."

Though Dorian claims he wants it _as hard and as fast as you possibly can_ , Galen's never actually tested his own limits — not to the very extreme. He's pretty sure he could go harder and faster than anyone could possibly enjoy.

"Yes. I'll say if it hurts." Dorian breathes heavily as he speaks, his chest still heaving from the exertion of orgasm. "Now fuck me, please."

Galen obliges.

Once he gets going, he soon understands that he needn't have worried. Dorian knows what he wants and he speaks up about it. Tonight is no different in that regard — though it is more work than usual. 

Before long Galen's dripping with sweat, his skin as wet as if he'd just splashed through a marsh in the Hinterlands — which he finds rather disgusting, if he's honest. But it's worth it when the pleasure takes hold. It hits him with powerful intensity as he locks eyes with Dorian once more. Everything in his consciousness falls away except for the thrill of his climax and the exquisite feeling of intimacy that rears up in its wake.

By the end Dorian is beaming up at him with a satisfied smile. And minutes later, when they're both lying blissful and limp, sprawled across the bed, Dorian still hasn't stopped grinning.

"There, you see?" he says. "We've put all that strength of yours to good use."

He reaches out, pats Galen's belly in a way that feels intimate, familiar, and approving. Such a small gesture — and yet for Galen it's almost overwhelming. 

His body is spent and exhausted, yes. But that's not why he's overwhelmed. 

This feeling — it's love, he's sure of it. But love is a word that can mean so many things — all types of affection fit within it. And he's not even sure that a word exists that could do justice to everything he's been feeling for Dorian.

Galen shuts his eyes, and for a moment he imagines himself like a body of water, deep and still. But then the surface ripples. And he knows for certain that creatures dwell below — massive, unfathomable, and beautiful — full of motion, and yet hidden beneath the layered darkness of the water. 

How would he even put that to words? 

_My feelings for you are like monstrous, unknowable beasts, but in a good way. I promise. Though it might make me cry to look at them closely._

As an easier alternative than trying to tell Dorian about any of that, Galen stares blankly up at the canopy above the bed. He lets his thoughts drift, trying to pin down how he feels about canopies. He's never slept under one before and the idea of it makes him uneasy, though he's not sure why.

Perhaps it's because something could be hiding up there — some creature or demon or agile Orlesian in a harlequin mask. If it attacked him now, he'd be too tired to do much about it. 

And he is exhausted. Though he knows he has to get up soon to wash, he still needs more time before he can move again. He has thoroughly enjoyed this, but he's certain he can't do it too often.

"Don't start expecting the same amount of effort from me every night," he says. 

"Shall I return the favor next time?" Dorian asks.

"Yes," Galen says, because being fucked always has its appeal, and Dorian's technique is superb. "But not so forcefully. You know how I like it."

"I do, don't I?" 

"You do," Galen says, affirming that Dorian's correct. 

He _does_ know. 

It feels good to acknowledge it, and then watch Dorian's reaction play out, a gentle half smile on his face, both tired and satisfied.

* * *

The washroom on the lower level is a marvel of engineering. When they first arrived and toured the estate, Varric noted its similarity to dwarven baths. It draws upon a hot spring from below so that there's heated water available at any time without a brazier or a fire spell required. 

(Galen's thinking of asking the Inquisition's builders and engineers to look into something similar for Skyhold, where the water for bathing always starts off ice cold.)

The estate is quiet and dark when he leaves the washroom and heads back upstairs. Compared to the humid air from the bath, the rest of the house is dry and cold. He's thankful for the full length robes he's wearing. They're a much better choice than walking back to his bedroom in naught but a towel.

He stops at the top of the stairs. Across the way, on the upper balcony, Josephine stands in the moonlight with her hair unbound. It shines glossy and dark, and her gown with its opulent fabrics reflects the light, as well. 

"Is everything alright?" 

He's not sure why she would be standing in the cold air at this hour if not feeling pensive or troubled.

"I couldn't sleep," she says, turning to look at him as he approaches. "I keep thinking about tomorrow and all the contingencies I may not have accounted for."

"We'll get through it." 

Galen leans against the door frame, sheltered from the wind, which catches Josephine's hair and sends a few stray locks across her face. She brushes them away and then ties back her hair with a ribbon from her pocket.

"You'll have to win the court's favor and keep it," she says. "They'll be judging everything you do and say."

"I know," he says. "But I've read what you've given me and I feel prepared."

He hasn't just read it. He's memorized everything he was given, which includes both general and specific details — everything from which families will be in attendance and who's in alliance with whom, to who's fucking their servants while their spouse is away.

"And yet you're not asleep either," she says. "Are you nervous, as well?"

"In truth, I haven't even tried sleeping yet," he admits.

"Ahh, I see," she says. And her words are imbued with a sly, amused lilt. "So you've been up doing _other things_ , then?"

"I have."

"Speaking of which," she says, "earlier today Cassandra caught Dorian staring off into the distance and sighing like a lovestruck teenager."

 _Speaking of which_. Her choice of words isn't lost on him. She really did just refer to Dorian as the "other things" he was doing. Very cheeky of her, though entirely accurate. He lets all that pass without comment.

"Oh, really?" he says. "I hadn't heard about the lovestruck sighing." 

He grins at the thought of using that piece of information to tease Dorian later.

"I trust that's your doing?" Josephine asks. 

"I expect so," he says, then shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "Maybe I'm getting too old for romance, but I'm looking forward to a few months from now, when there's less of the urgency between us and more of the familiarity and comfort."

"How sensible. You sound like my parents."

He laughs. "Yes, I lead an exciting life for a boring person, don't I?"

"Oh, but I do love the frenzy and passion of a new romance. I envy you that, just a little." 

She pinches her thumb and forefinger together like she's pinching salt — though he can't imagine she's ever actually cooked anything with her own two hands.

He's about to ask her if she has anyone special herself — perhaps a young man from court or a young lady from her school days — when he hears the sound of footsteps behind him.

"There you are." 

It's Dorian, standing there in a mostly unfastened robe that reveals as much of his chest as it hides.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd drowned in the bath," he says.

"No, I just got caught up in diplomatic talks." Galen says, and gestures to Josephine. "Ambassadors. You know how they are."

Josephine greets him with a friendly "good evening" and genuine warmth in her smile.

Dorian returns the greeting with a quiet nod, then looks to Galen.

"I trust the washroom's free?" he asks.

"All yours."

Before Dorian leaves, he steps closer and leans in for a quick kiss to the lips. Not only does Galen oblige, he also reaches up to trail his fingers along Dorian's jaw as he pulls away — a gentle, affectionate gesture. 

No sense hiding what's between them when everyone knows already.

As Dorian heads for the stairs, Josephine tucks her hands into her pockets, rocks back on her heels, and grins playfully up at Galen. He's never had a younger sister, but he knows he would've liked one, especially one as devious and quick-witted as Josephine.

"Protest all you like, Inquisitor," she says. "But you _are_ a romantic. And you do like showing off as much as he does."

* * *

A short while later, when they're both back in bed, Galen wraps his arms around Dorian and pulls him close. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the sensation of his own naked skin pressed close to Dorian. It's deliciously good, so much so that he feels almost drugged by it. The pleasure of physical intimacy is heightened and intensified because it's combined with the same indescribable depth of emotion that overwhelmed him before. 

Dorian responds by caressing him — not with rising arousal, but slow and relaxed, running his hands along Galen's back. It feels wonderful and it aches at the same time. He hopes so desperately that Dorian is experiencing a similar sense of attraction and devotion.

"You know what I think?" Galen whispers. "If I _was_ chosen for this, then maybe I wasn't chosen alone. Maybe we all were."

"Hmm?" Dorian sounds drowsy, as though he's on the verge of sleep, or else so lost to the pleasure of being held that it takes him some time to respond.

"That means you were chosen, too." Galen speaks softly. His lips brush Dorian's ear. 

"What? By Andraste?" Dorian murmurs. His breath is warm against Galen's skin. "You don't believe all that."

"Not sure I believe anything except for how good this feels. Possibly too good for luck alone."

Galen sighs, contented.

Dorian follows suit with a blissful sigh of his own. But a moment later, he lifts his head and pulls back from their embrace just far enough to peer down at Galen.

"No, wait a minute," he says. "If Andraste chose you, then she also chose me _for you_? Is that what you're suggesting?"

"Sure," Galen says, grinning up at him. "Doesn't quite make sense to believe one without the other." 

He knows exactly how presumptuous that sounds. He _is_ trying to antagonize Dorian — just a little — for truly believing that Galen is some sort of Chosen One. But he also sincerely means what he says — being intimate with Dorian does feel perfectly right.

"Hah! Your ego really is bigger than mine," Dorian says.

"Wouldn't be the only thing that's bigger than– Ouch!" Galen cries out sharply, but also with laughter, when Dorian pinches his thigh.

"We were having such a splendid moment, and now look. You've ruined it." Dorian teases him.

"You love it," Galen says.

And immediately Dorian replies.

"I love it." 

This suggests very strongly to Galen that, yes, they both want to use that word. 

_Love_. It's a word with too many meanings. A word that can't properly describe the profundity of emotion that stirs beneath the surface. And yet, it's the best word he can think to use.

They've not directed it at each other, of course — not yet — but it certainly feels like a step along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The explicit part at the beginning works if paired up with my recent ficlet [All of This Is New](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130141), from Dorian's point of view. 
> 
> (Though now that I've written that one, I sort of consider it an unreliable narrator piece — just a little. I do think men in Tevinter would find ways to show their affection for other men, even if they're not supposed to. But I also think someone like Dorian might look back on it and see only the empty parts and the sorrow, and not count those many small moments of rebellion and connection.)


	16. The Winter Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fashion, spycraft, and flirtation at the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Video game mechanics aside, I just think those halla statuettes would have to be very small.

**Halamshiral, Day 139**

The silver mask rests lightly on his nose and cheekbones, more comfortably than Galen assumed it would. Now that he's fully dressed, he regards himself in the mirror in his quarters at the Halamshiral estate, and he finds that what bothers him most is not the mask at all — it's the Inquisition's garish dress uniform.

Josephine has assured him that "it's a classic ensemble, designed to emphasize our present day reach and power while displaying a thematic continuity with the Inquisition of old."

But he isn't won over by her sophistry. It's just an ugly coat. And even he can see it. 

As he descends the stairs, he frowns when he catches sight of the rest of his companions. They're gathered in the foyer and each of them is wearing the same terrible jacket and sash. 

Despite the mask hiding much of his face, his displeasure must be evident, because Vivienne approaches him at the foot of the stairs. 

"Lord Trevelyan," she says, "you look as though something's amiss."

They won't arrive at the palace for another hour, and yet she's already deploying formal titles. Unnecessary, he thinks, and doesn't bother to return the formality.

"I know I'm not the expert here, but these clothes are objectively awful — aren't they?" 

He makes a sweeping gesture to indicate his own attire along with everyone else's matching outfits. 

"Yes, my dear. I'm sad for you that you even have to ask."

Her remark clearly amuses Dorian. He's been standing nearby — listening as Cassandra and Cullen gripe about the unpleasant necessity of attending a ball. He turns away from them, grinning, and dives right in to the conversation about the Inquisition's sartorial missteps.

"The boots might have worked," he says, "in a different color and with more of a heel. But these coats are unsalvageable. Burn them all and be done with it. That's what I say."

Vivienne turns to look at him. Galen fully expects her to fire off a disdainful comment directed against Dorian. 

Instead she surprises him.

"I'd have to agree with you," she says. "Had I been consulted in advance, I would have steered our dear advisors away from this disastrous tailoring experiment."

"Just imagine what the other guests at the palace will say of us," Dorian says.

Rather than dreading the experience, he sounds intrigued — and perhaps eager — to experience it firsthand. Galen recalls how much pride Dorian takes in being a pariah to the elite circles of his own country. Negative attention is, after all, still attention. 

"I expect they'll think we're so desperate for coin we've joined an Orlesian city guard to pay for our traveling expenses," Galen says.

Because that's what he notices the most: These outfits are the dress clothes of a military unit or a civil guard. That's not at all how he sees himself — or wants to. But perhaps it's closer to reality than what he'd like to admit.

When Vivienne laughs at his comment, Galen recognizes her sincerity. He's heard enough of her false laughter by now that he can reliably distinguish the two. She always does appreciate the insightful use of disparaging snark.

"Keep that wit about you, Inquisitor," she says. "You may yet survive the court's judgment."

* * *

The Winter Palace is beautiful, a spectacle of wealth and privilege. As the gates and doors are held open and the Inquisition cohort passes through the grand entrance, Galen looks around him and tries to take it all in. There's so much sparkle — every surface gleams with gold or polished stone. Even the fabrics of the banners, carpets, and curtains are finely woven with metallic thread in patterns intricate and stunning. 

In truth, he's dazzled by it.

And yet, he can't forget another landscape, both very different and intimately related. He thinks of the battle-scarred plains, a place of broken ramparts, weary soldiers, and bloated corpses bursting with flies. Ravaged by war, the Exalted Plains is the face behind the gilded mask.

He'd like to wash his hands of courtly intrigue and political manuevering. But he's not naive enough to think he can. Tonight, he and his companions need to be here — to curry favor, advocate for an end to the war, and stop an assassination plot if possible.

He knows what he's supposed to do, namely, talk to people and listen in on conversations. Later, if there truly is a Venatori plot unfolding within the palace, as Leliana suspects, he'll have to do some fighting. But for now, he feels pretty good about smiling and nodding and chatting up strangers — who are all likely to be sharing scandalous rumors about him as soon as his back is turned. 

It's an easy job, at least.

The problem is, Leliana needs a bit more from him than she initially thought. She stands beside him in a quiet part of the ballroom and explains the problem with the doors. 

"Some we can open. Others we can't."

The ones her spies can't open are those sealed by magic. And while Leliana did have a plan for getting past them, her solution isn't working. She explains it to him in the broadest terms possible — something about a magical master key, a formula to bypass the runes, and an unknown error that her agents can't solve on the fly. 

"We need you to access the Grand Library from the second floor and search for some documents."

"How am I supposed to–" 

He starts to ask, but she clearly doesn't have much time to spare. She interrupts right away to provide the answer. 

"There's a lattice wall in the garden. You'll have to climb it when no one is looking."

"I'm sorry," Galen says, pointing to his chest to indicate that he, a talented battlemage, is not the sort of person one usually calls upon for acts of stealth and misdirection. "You want _me_ to do this?"

"My people all have their assignments. It has to be you."

"Any advice?" he asks, because at this point, why not?

She seems to think he can remain unseen while climbing a high garden wall in the middle of a public gathering. It sounds impossible to him, but what does he know? He's not the Inquisition's spymaster. That's her job.

"Move quickly," she says. "Once you're there, don't get caught."

"Oh, is that all?" 

His sarcasm is still good-natured, though he suspects this task is going to annoy him quite a lot before the night is over.

"No," she says. "That's not all. We need to acquire about a dozen of these."

She removes a handkerchief from her pocket, places it on the table, and waits for Galen to take it. Once he has it in hand, she turns and walks away. 

He glances down before tucking it into his pocket. A small, carved halla is nestled in the handkerchief's silken folds. It's a powerfully enchanted object. He can tell by how it feels against his fingertips, a mild electric glow like the prickle of nerves.

* * *

The lattice wall in the garden does look easily surmountable. But it's right near the fountain, where a group of ladies is gathered. They talk and laugh as they part with their caprice coins, tossing them into the water one by one.

Galen keeps his distance for now and instead makes his way over to Dorian. He's standing all alone with a glass of wine in hand. 

"Not feeling sociable?" Galen asks.

"Oh no, on the contrary," Dorian says. "I _have_ socialized. And, for now, I'm done with it."

"These people aren't being rude to you, are they?"

He knows full well that Dorian can take care of himself, especially when responding to slights and insults. And yet he feels protective. 

"No one's being rude," Dorian assures him. "I'd almost prefer it if they were."

"Oh? Bored already?"

"They only want to talk about you," Dorian says. He looks down at his wine, then finishes the last of it in one gulp.

Galen grins. He can't help it. He's amused at Dorian's frustration over having to talk about someone other than himself.

"What a nightmare for you."

Dorian nods in the direction of a man in an opalescent mask. 

"That one over there was asking me all sorts of questions about whether or not you're any good in bed. He seemed to think I would know."

"I wonder where he got that idea," Galen says.

He looks over at the man, taking note of his attire well enough to point him out later to Leliana. If some duke's cousin or marquis' son has a silly crush, perhaps she can take advantage, leveraging the man's interest to spread some rumors favorable to the Inquisition. 

It's a thought that wouldn't have even occurred to him a few months ago. Thanks to Josephine's influence, he's learning.

"All sorts of gossip about that, in fact," Dorian says. "It's growing tiresome, responding to these ridiculous assertions."

"Very ridiculous," Galen says, "considering how very much we despise each other."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot to mention that riveting detail." Dorian grins happily. As usual, he enjoys the chance for some flirtatious teasing. "But never fear, I gave him the truth of it."

"Oh, did you?" 

Galen thinks he's still joking, but can't be sure. At least, not until Dorian explains further. And when he does, he speaks loudly enough for a few people standing nearby to overhear. 

"You were chosen by Andraste herself. And since then you've dedicated yourself in chastity to your divine benefactor. Truly, you are an inspiration to us all."

He claps his hand firmly on Galen's shoulder, as if to emphasize — for the benefit of anyone watching them — how very inspired he is.

Galen nods and tries hard not to laugh. 

"Ah, yes. The vow of celibacy I've chosen to live by." 

Encouraging the spread of a few contradictory rumors ought to be fun, he thinks. And relatively harmless.

Dorian leans closer and speaks more softly. 

"I'll try using your premise on the next one who asks. I'll tell them we can't stand each other." 

He pauses, considering for a moment, then asks, "Presumably hate sex would be out of the question?"

"Oh, yes," Galen says. "I'm not really into that."

"It's not always bad. You should try–" Dorian stops, chuckling as he catches himself. "What am I saying? No. You absolutely should not try it. Not with anyone."

"I promise I won't," Galen says. 

But he makes a mental note to talk about this further when they have some time alone. He knows himself fairly well in this regard. He's not going to desire other people as long as he's seriously involved with someone. But they ought to have a conversation about it. If they're starting to feel possessive towards each other — which he suspects they both are — then it's a good idea to make that an open, approachable topic between them. He's tried it the other way — not talking about jealousy — enough to know how badly that works in the long run.

"Alright, wish me luck," he says. 

Throughout his conversation with Dorian, he's been keeping an eye on the women at the fountain. At last they've wandered elsewhere. And if he extinguishes a lamp or two on his way over there, he's pretty sure he can gain the advantage of some darkness along the far wall.

"Why luck?" Dorian asks.

"Because," Galen says, "I have to scale that trellis and then break into the upstairs library."

Even behind the mask, he can see Dorian's eyes grow wide in disbelief.

"You're not joking."

"Wish that I was," Galen says. 

He takes a deep, calming breath and then heads towards the lattice wall.

* * *

He's late to return to the ballroom, well past the third bell. And of course the door shuts behind him with a loud, metallic clink as the latch falls back into place. A good many disapproving eyes are upon him.

But he has the documents he was searching for. 

As he hands them off to Leliana, he whispers, "I think we're going to have a long night ahead of us."


	17. The Winter Palace (Dancing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winning back court favor, thwarting Florianne, and dancing with Dorian.

**The Winter Palace, Day 139**

Fortunately, there are plenty of ways to win court favor. So even though many of the nobles have judged him harshly for his conspicuous tardiness, Galen only has to sacrifice a small amount of dignity to make up for his previous losses. 

He stands near the fountain and digs in his pocket for a handful of caprice coins. As he holds one between his thumb and forefinger, he channels magic through his fingertips to imbue it with lightning. When he flips it into the air, it leaves a shimmering trail of sparks as it arcs towards the fountain, then lands with a fizzle and a satisfying _plunk_. He repeats the trick with six more coins as a crowd of onlookers oohs and ahhs with curiosity and delight.

A young lady, who Galen thinks is one of the nieces of the Marquis Etienne — it's so hard to tell with the masks! — claps loudly and then hands him two more coins. He tosses them both with a small burst of lightning, just like the ones before.

After that, he retreats towards Dorian, who was watching the spectacle unfold from the middle of the garden.

"That looked humiliating," Dorian says. "I'm going to pretend I don't know you."

"Pretend whatever you like," Galen says, leaning closer and whispering. "Just meet me in ten minutes at the door to the servants' quarters."

He has a key now, thanks to Morrigan. And from the papers he's found so far, it sounds like Briala's people are plotting something untoward. Leliana agrees that it's well worth the risk of Galen leaving the party for a while to investigate.

"Oh? Sneaking away together, are we?" Dorian asks. "How naughty."

"You wish," Galen says.

"Yes, but so do you." Dorian grins at him.

And he has to concede. "Fair point. You've got me there." 

Because teasing or not, it's true. He really does wish he was sneaking off for a tryst with Dorian instead of searching the hidden corners of the palace for assassins.

* * *

Galen doesn't plan to make the same mistake twice. After leaving the servants' quarters, he pays more attention to the bells that ring out, calling guests back to the ballroom for the next round of dances. 

Josephine has encouraged him to wait for the second bell in order to show up fashionably late. And so he lingers in the trophy room, staring up into the glassy eyes of some poor, taxidermied creature as he thinks about everything that just happened.

Entering through the servants' quarters allowed him to access the Grand Apartments. There, he and his companions were ambushed by Venatori, whom they fought and killed. They also ran into Briala, who was fighting off another group of Venatori. That makes it highly likely that she's not conspiring with Corypheus. 

But it's hard to trust anything around here. To Galen, the palace is like a nest of vipers. He can't wait to thwart these assassins and then leave.

* * *

The Grand Duke's sister Florianne is toying with him. Galen's sure of it, but he can't figure out what she stands to gain by inviting him to dance. 

She claims she wants to talk where spies can't overhear. That's plausible, but it's a risky move on her part. Nobody else here has yet agreed to dance with him. And he's already asked several of the influential women who have connections to the Council of Heralds.[1] They've all very politely made their excuses. And it hasn't surprised him. After all, he's a Circle mage from the Free Marches — hardly anyone's first choice if they're betting on a competent partner for an Orlesian ballroom dance.

Of course, that could be what Florianne is counting on — that the Inquisitor will humiliate himself by not knowing all the steps and bows and fancy little flourishes that these Orlesians love so much. 

But why would she do this? Out of spite for Gaspard?

It's not impossible to conceive of, especially given the contents of Leliana's reports about Florianne. As Gaspard's much younger sister, she was raised in her brother's shadow and taught to support him at all costs. It's hardly a longshot to think that an overlooked child might grow up to resent her favored sibling.

And the Inquisition is here tonight on his invitation. Would publicly embarrassing the Inquisitor be enough to reflect badly on Duke Gaspard himself?

Galen isn't sure. The Game is baffling in its intricacies.

Still, he knows he won't figure out Florianne's motives by standing quietly in a corner and ruminating. Better to see if he can keep her talking. Perhaps she'll reveal her purpose.

"Very well, Your Grace," he says. "Let's dance."

As he follows her to the dance floor, she signals to the orchestra. In response, they promptly change their tempo, playing at a faster pace and setting the stage for a more obscure opening sequence. 

How interesting. Perhaps she _does_ want to see him stumble. Or maybe she simply assumes that his people will have taught him every dance, including the less popular variations?

Though, Maker knows, there hasn't been time for dancing lessons at Skyhold. 

With that in mind, Galen glances up at the gallery and catches sight of Josephine, who is vigorously shaking her head "no" at him. From the grim set of her mouth, he can tell that she's worried. But there's no way to assuage her fears just now. The dance is about to begin.

Beside him, Florianne smiles.

"You are from the Free Marches, are you not?" she asks.

He looks at her, assessing. 

She's graceful in how she moves. So that's good. Still, she's much taller than his usual dancing partner — Alana, his dear old friend from the Circle who inherited her human father's rounded ears, but her elven mother's stature. Height shouldn't matter much, of course. All in all, he thinks he has a solid chance of gaining court favor from this little escapade.

He smiles back at Florianne. 

It's fortunate that her mask leaves so much of her face exposed. He'll be able to see if her expression changes when the realization hits her — that he is, in fact, an excellent dancer.

* * *

Josephine is the first to greet him when the dance is done. She's smiling with relief and enthusiasm.

"We should take you dancing more often!"

"I'd invite you out there right now," Galen says, gesturing with his thumb to the dance floor behind him, "but I'm afraid we have more pressing concerns at the moment."

He doesn't trust Florianne or agree with her assessment that Gaspard is the culprit, plotting to assassinate Celene. But following Florianne's suggestion and searching the closed royal wing of the palace is the only lead they have left.

"We need more information," he says to all three of his advisors before he gives them the details of what he has in mind.

* * *

He's not sure how Leliana's people manage to smuggle clothes and weapons into the royal wing. But they accomplish it just as well as they did earlier in the servants' quarters.

And just like before, Galen and his three companions take off their red coats and fancy blue sashes. They fold them, hide them, and then put on their leather robes and light armor as quickly as they can. It's not really undressing, since their boots, breeches, and underlayers don't change — it's just a convenient precaution so as not to mar their dress coats with the evidence of a fight.

"I do like watching you take your clothes off," Dorian says as he and Galen stand side by side to change their outfits. 

His tone is cheerfully conversational. He doesn't seem to care that both Sera and Cassandra are standing just behind them.

"Save that thought for later." Galen grins at him.

"Ugh, settle down, you two," Sera says as she checks her blades and then sheathes them. 

Her bow and arrows are not among the weapons provided — all of which are serviceable, but nothing special. They've been given none of their usual expertly-forged and heavily enchanted items. Everything here could be stolen or confiscated without it being missed.

"Less chatter from all of you," Cassandra says. "Let's search these rooms quickly and be done with it. I don't know what we'll find, but it has to be something."

The first door they reach is magically sealed. Galen, who's now prepared for this, takes all the little halla figurines from his pocket and holds the entire handful up to the door. Five of them flare blue with magic spent, and just like that, the door clicks open. 

It seems they've found Celene's old quarters, the room where she slept before the entire wing was shut. And as they all immediately notice, there's a naked man tied to the bed.

"Was this part of anyone's wager?" Galen asks, glancing one by one at the shocked faces of his friends. "The ones Varric was taking for 'weird shit we'll find at the Winter Palace'?" 

"I had naked _ladies_ on mine," Sera says. "Not tied up though. Should've thought of that."

"Oh, Orlesians," Dorian says, laughing.

Even Cassandra looks amused by the man's predicament.

He's tied but not gagged — no need for his captors to silence him in this closed-off wing. And he's now pleading rather stridently to be set free. 

"Patience please," Galen says. "I have questions for you first."

None of them are the sort of questions he's ever asked a naked man tied to a bed before. But there's a first time for everything, or so he's heard.

The man claims to be one of Gaspard's soldiers, and he was sneaking into the palace this evening as part of a small contingent of forces determined to disrupt the start of the peace talks. From the sound of things, Celene allowed it all to happen — outplaying her cousin in order to expose his treachery.

"Are you sure that was wise?" Dorian asks, after Galen's untied the man and told him to go find Commander Cullen. 

"No," Galen says. In all honesty, he's not really sure that anything he's done this evening has been wise. "But if we need him to talk — officially, I mean — we can't just leave him here."

As the soldier buttons his tunic and hops awkwardly into his breeches, Galen does a quick sweep of the room, searching for documents of interest. He finds nothing Leliana would have use for. But he does take one thing from the desk — a blank piece of paper, marked in gold leaf with an imperial insignia. He folds it and tucks it into his pocket.

* * *

Briala's trying to have one of her own people killed — not a great look for a would-be champion of the alienages of Orlais.

But now, with Briala's spy saved from harm and sent off to seek Leliana's protection, the Inquisition has blackmail fodder to leverage against all three leaders. In Galen's mind, an idea is starting to take shape, foolish and naive though it may be.

If the Inquisition can compel Gaspard, Celene, and Briala to work together, the volatile political situation could be resolved into something calmer, at least for a time. Celene would bring continuity and stability to the empire while Gaspard would keep the military in line, preventing them from forming a dangerous faction of their own. And perhaps, with her influence bolstered by the Inquisition, Briala could serve as conduit to give elven voices a more central place in the politics of Orlais.

He doesn't believe that the Venatori are working with anyone here. Instead, they're opportunists, taking advantage of an internal crisis already unfolding — and letting themselves in when the gates are unguarded.

* * *

Well, no. 

As it turns out, he's entirely wrong about the Venatori. 

They've been working with Florianne this whole time. And while he didn't see it coming, it _is_ a relief to know for sure that it's her — and not Gaspard or Briala — who's taken Corypheus' side.

"No more dances for the Grand Duchess," Galen says once he's thwarted her attempt to have him killed. "But I will need to have a chat with her about how deeply she's hurt my feelings."

His comment makes Dorian chuckle. And that's exactly the validation he was looking for. It almost makes up for how everything else is suddenly going so poorly.

* * *

Exposing Florianne's treachery in front of every noble in Orlais is _extremely_ satisfying. 

Of course, Florianne herself looks terribly unhappy about it. She's pouting as though she's just eaten one of those seasoned appetizers — a ham of some sort? — that deliver a sudden burst of desolate sadness to all who taste it.

* * *

Galen stares off into the distant night. 

The balcony is dark and relatively quiet — a pleasant escape from the ballroom behind him, where everyone else still celebrates.

And it's well that they should celebrate. The Venatori threat in the palace is neutralized. Florianne is safely in custody where she can't hurt anyone else. And Celene, Gaspard, and Briala have finished reading and reluctantly signing a pair of documents — the peace accord, for one, and a memorandum of agreement with the Inquisition, drawn up at Josephine and Leliana's behest.

But it's been a long night. Galen's tired of running around, tired of searching for evidence and thinking so hard about everyone's motives. He's out here alone because he's in need of some solitude. 

And yet, he's glad when Dorian finds him. Maybe he didn't want to be entirely alone after all.

He explains how exhausted he's feeling. But that doesn't stop him from taking Dorian's hand when it's offered. Dancing at the Winter Palace with someone he's newly in love with? He won't likely get a second chance.

Dorian takes hold of his waist, taking the lead, and so Galen follows. No problem there — he knows all the steps and can adapt gracefully to either role.

His only sorrow is that they're both wearing gloves. He likes holding hands with Dorian and would prefer to do it without two layers of sueded leather between them. But it's a small complaint, and not worth addressing at all if it means stopping their dance. To stop would feel like breaking a spell as it builds, before it's reached the point of casting — and there's nothing so frustrating as a good spell interrupted.

This dance does feel like a particularly good sort of magic. 

With every step, he responds to Dorian. Moving forward and back, he feels carried along by the momentum between them. When he catches himself smiling, he realizes that his mood has improved markedly since he fled to the balcony seeking solitude.

The sounds of the ballroom seem to fade away even further as Dorian draws him closer and slows down the pace. One step at a time, their dance changes into an embrace, though they still sway together with a gentle motion.

Dorian turns his head, brings his lips close to Galen's, and waits. 

"Mmm," Galen says — a soft, appreciative sound as he leans in and kisses him.

Dorian responds magnificently, taking hold of Galen's hips and keeping him still, so that they're no longer dancing at all, just standing with their bodies pressed together, holding on and sighing through it as their kiss intensifies. Galen's mouth is open, and Dorian starts to lick in and taste him — the way he often does when they're together in bed. It's arousing enough that Galen shifts his hips to gain some friction.

But Dorian stops him, and then pulls back.

"Don't," he whispers, his voice breathy with arousal. "Unless you'd like to sneak off and find us a bedroom."

"No," Galen says. "No more stealth missions for me this evening."

Dorian laughs. 

"Good point. We'd likely need more of those small statues — and the last time we used those, you looked about ready to set them all on fire and be rid of them."

"Oh! I still have one," Galen says and reaches into his pocket for the last unused little halla.

He holds it up and Dorian takes it from him.

"What a remarkable little object," he says, turning it over and looking at it from every angle. "You know it reminds me of some of the magical locking mechanisms we use in the Imperium."

And just like that, the mood between them changes. 

Galen's struck by how natural it feels. With Dorian, it's so easy to step back from the heat of passion and fall into a friendly conversation about any number of topics. This time, the topic just happens to be Tevinter magic for securing doors and devices. Dorian explains point after point about locking magic while Galen, unfamiliar with most of it, asks follow up questions about the relative merits of glyphs versus enchantments. 

More than anything else, this dynamic between them — both potent and comfortable, an erotic attraction combined with a deepening friendship — is what makes Galen want to confess the depth and sincerity of his feelings. But still, he waits. It's not the right time for an 'I love you.' Not yet.

But he thinks it will be soon.

And so he continues to talk and laugh with Dorian, forgetting about the rest of the ball entirely — at least for a short while. Later, they're still laughing together when Leliana comes to find them. She lets them know that the Inquisition has spent a socially appropriate amount of time at the palace. 

They don't have to stay any longer.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Letter to the Ostwick Circle

_Dear Alana,_

_You'll recognize the emblem imprinted at the top of this page. Yes, it's gold leaf. And yes, it's the real thing. Let's just say that an opportunity presented itself for me to quietly liberate a sheet of paper from the Empress' desk in the Winter Palace._

_After the events of last night, I don't think Celene will miss it. She's got other concerns right now._

_Though I wish I could tell you everything that happened at the palace, I'm afraid I can't. If I'm too free with information, I won't get this letter past my spymaster — at least not without a slew of redactions to spoil the look of the page._

_So I'll distill it all into the most important point: Tonight I owe you everything, my friend._

_In particular, I must thank you for the following:_

_1\. Your unabashed love of Orlesian ballroom dancing.  
2\. Your longstanding commitment to mastering the steps of every Orlesian ballroom dance you can find printed (and have mailed to you in pamphlet format.)  
3\. Your inability to convince any person other than myself to learn the partnered dances with you._

_I'll explain it more later — when all of this is over perhaps, and when next I see you. For now just know that the price of a political win tonight was one perfectly executed dance. Thanks to you, it was a price I could easily pay._

_As always, I miss you, but I'm glad you're safe and far away from here._

_Yours,_

_Galen_

* * *

* * *

1"Don't ask any of the men to dance with you, my dear, the court would not find it typical," Vivienne warned him earlier, though he knew as much already. [Return to text]


	18. Halamshiral & The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knight-Enchanter training begins. An awkward relationship conversation happens.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Halamshiral

_I get the feeling that Commander Helaine doesn't do friendly chats._

_I met her briefly this afternoon and I'm not sure how well it went. She was reserved and formal and I was, perhaps, overly enthusiastic. Ever since I finished reading The Way of the Knight-Enchanter, I've been eager to talk about it with someone who knows the text._

_And it can't be Vivienne. She wouldn't approve of my questions._

_Primarily, I want to know if you can separate the magic from the philosophy of rank and privilege within the Chantry. The book offers a few tantalizing hints that the magic itself is far older and more flexible than the way it's practiced now._

_But it's only an undercurrent — a subtext running contrary to the main thesis._

_And that thesis, of course, is the exceptionalism of the Knight-Enchanter — a mage who leads soldiers beyond the confines of the Circle. A mage who is, by definition, privileged among other mages._

_I should be comfortable with that, shouldn't I? It's familiar to me. I've been the trusted mage, the noble's son who gets to do things a bit differently than everyone else, the nice man from the "good Circle."_

_But I don't want to be the exception anymore. Instead I'd like to help change the rules for all of us. And I'm going to learn this magic — I desperately want to — but not for the sake of political advancement within the existing hierarchy. That doesn't interest me at all._

_I'll talk with Helaine again tomorrow. She's joining us when we set out on the road. I'll have lessons in the evenings on the way back to Skyhold._

_Maybe she'll warm up to me and I'll find out what she really thinks. I can be reserved and professional when I have to, but I always prefer to build a friendship when I can._

_On an unrelated note, I need to talk to Dorian. Perhaps later this evening. Or maybe not. I suppose we'll see how I feel._

* * *

**En route to Skyhold, Day 141-142**

Helaine does not warm up to him. 

She also doesn't engage in smalltalk nor tell him anything about her life and interests. She refers to him as "recruit" and responds to his questions with vague, uninformative answers. _It is not your place to ask, recruit_ , and _no, I cannot say_.

She begins their first lesson with a solemnly delivered lecture on the proper attitude required for leadership. Everything she says is lifted word for word from the first chapter of the book, which Galen has read. And so it feels needlessly repetitive. 

He takes a deep breath and tries to muster some patience.

It doesn't help that he can hear his companions nearby. After a long day of riding, they're all gathered comfortably around the fire, laughing and enjoying each other's company. He'd like to be with them, telling a stupid joke or making an awful pun just to hear Cassandra sigh in displeasure or have Sera throw a bread crust at him. 

He'd like to tease Cullen about the crowd of lovely young ladies who were so eagerly flirting with him at the Winter Palace. And he suspects Josephine still isn't done playfully berating him for all the completely false rumors he confirmed as true for her sister Yvette. The one about the orgy in Redcliffe was particularly amusing.

He lets his thoughts drift some more, back to this morning, waking up in a soft bed with Dorian still asleep beside him. It's so strange to think that it's only been three weeks since they first had sex. It seems a lot longer. Since then, they've slept together every night that a bed's been available. And they've also found ways to indulge their desires when a bed is lacking.

It's been wonderful so far. 

He indulges in a more detailed daydream about Dorian until he's roused from it by Helaine. Her lecture is over and she now stands in front of him with her feet firmly planted. She moves her right hand very quickly. One moment it's empty and the next she's brandishing a lighted blade that dispels the deepening shadows.

"Now you," she says.

She opens her fist and the blade disappears.

"Right," he says. "My turn."

But he has no idea how to replicate the spell she just demonstrated. She does it differently than the way he imagined based on the description in chapter three. 

"If you wouldn't mind showing me again?"

She glares at him, looking displeased and unimpressed. But she obliges, raising her right hand, turning it gracefully, and then closing her fingers around empty air. As she does so, a golden light starts to emanate, brighter and brighter from the center of her palm. The light coalesces into a shape like the hilt of a sword. And then immediately that light springs upwards, illuminating a long, straight column that shimmers with magic. It's her spectral blade, summoned from nothing, but bright and deadly in hand.

"Okay," Galen says, and tries to repeat what she's shown him.

It looks like it ought to be simple, but he can't seem to do it. 

Helaine watches him try over and over again for several minutes. Then she points out that his breathing is wrong, his stance is wrong, and his moves to cast the spell are graceless and malformed. 

"Enough," she says, when he continues to fail. "You will try again tomorrow evening."

* * *

He feels demoralized by his worthless performance. And the next morning he's in a terrible mood.

Dorian figures this out while they're sitting together eating breakfast.

"One of those days, is it?" he asks.

Galen nods. "I won't be much good to talk to."

"Alright. Later, then," he says, and gets up to go sit with Cullen and Varric. 

He starts up a conversation that Galen can overhear in bits and pieces.

"You know," Dorian says to them, "I went to Kirkwall once."

Despite being firmly mired in his own troubles, Galen's glad to hear him chatting happily in the background, laughing with the other two about all the worst places in Lowtown, including a tavern where, apparently, Varric lives. 

It's not easy to be so far from home. Galen knows this as well as anyone. His own strategy for coping has been to nuture these newfound connections, coaxing them gradually into friendships. He wants the same for Dorian — a robust and healthy set of friends with whom to feel at ease.

* * *

As the morning wears on, the dust of the road coats his boots and breeches up to mid-thigh. The ends of his robes are dirt-stained as well. They're a handsome red leather — with a slit up the back that makes them just as well-suited for riding as they are for ease of movement during a fight — but now they're in serious need of a good cleaning.

There's even dust in his mouth — a fine grit that tastes like mud. And though he washes it down with a drink from his waterskin, the relief doesn't last for long.

What's more, they haven't stopped for lunch yet and Galen's getting hungry. But the path is narrow and rugged here, and it's best to wait until they've found a more suitable location.

None of this is improving his mood.

As the road levels off and widens again, the Iron Bull rides up alongside him on a massive draft horse. It's a breed whose name he can't remember, used by the Qunari mostly.

"Bad mood, huh?" Bull asks.

"Bad mood," Galen confirms.

"You get in a fight with your pretty boyfriend or something?" 

Bull grins, teasing him.

Though he's not in the best state of mind to be teased, Galen does take pleasure in hearing Dorian referred to this way — as _his_. It's that possessive impulse once again.

"No," he says to Bull. "No fights. Nothing like that."

"Let me guess. It's that magic sword stuff the elf commander's trying to teach you." 

When Galen doesn't answer, Bull continues.

"Piece of advice for you. Maybe just fucking listen and then do what she tells you."

"Oh?" Galen says. "And you know all about learning magic, do you?" 

"No," Bull says, "but all that stuff she was telling you about rank and role? And knowing your place so you can do your job? I do know about that."

"Ahh, so you were listening in on a private lesson?"

"Hey, Qunari spy, remember?"

"I remember," Galen says. "Obey without question, all that?"

"Do what she says and shut up about it," Bull says. "Yeah."

Galen's talked with Bull about the Qun before. He can understand — and even appreciate — that seeing the world through a lens of pure belief and faithful certainty can be a good thing. It brings comfort to a lot of people. But the Qunari way of life is so strange and unfamiliar. It's hard for him to see it as anything other than distasteful and misguided. And, of course, there's the fact that Qun shows no kindness towards mages.

"You realize that the entire point of my training is that my magic gets stronger?" Galen says. "Doesn't sound like something a Qunari spy should be comfortable with."

Bull chuckles. "I guess not."

"Interesting." 

For all his talk of obedience and order, Bull is quite the contradiction. Galen's starting to think of him as a man perpetually in search of loopholes — continually finding ways to live his life without oversight, beyond the reach of the ethos that supposedly guides him.

"Look, boss, all I'm saying is not everything has to be a three-hour council meeting in your head. Debating philosophy and shit? Do that later. On your own time. And leave your teacher out of it. She's just trying to do her job and she doesn't owe you her opinions."

Galen looks at him. 

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, and he means it. 

He knows he's been disrespectful to Helaine by letting his attention wander. But he hasn't considered the ways he's been trying to push her, unfairly, to fulfill his expectations. 

He feels suitably chastised.

"Whoa, now," Bull says, slowing his horse as the ground slopes downward. 

Ahead of them, there's a wide, flat clearing at the side of the road — a place, at last, where they can stop to enjoy a midday meal.

"And hey," Bull says, "go easy on the sulking. For whatever it's worth, I think you're a pretty decent guy for a mage."

Galen shakes his head, but he's laughing now. His mood is improving with the promise of lunch ahead.

"Thanks, Bull," he says. "I always love a backhanded compliment when I can get one."

* * *

His second lesson goes better than the first.

Helaine begins with another lecture. This time it's about leading by example and inspiring acts of valor among one's subordinates. She talks about duty and service and honorable conduct. But she also briefly addresses one of Galen's questions from the previous day. 

"The discipline began with the ancient elves. As such, it predates the Chantry and has been adapted to serve across peoples and cultures."

He wants to hear more about this part, but he stays quiet. He's taking Bull's advice to heart. She's an elven mage serving within a human-dominated hierarchy. The last thing she needs is some well-intentioned nobleborn human bothering her about her political philosophies regarding the Chantry.

And he pays careful attention when she gets to the end of her lecture and explains the channeling of magic, guided by her breath and her movement, leading up to the moment when she calls forth the blade. 

He gets the sense she explained all this yesterday also, but he was lost in daydreams instead of listening.

It makes a lot more sense now. 

And this time, when he attempts the spell, it isn't a total failure. He can feel the proper flow of mana, guided by his breath just the way she described it. He lets it churn and build within him, like waves driven on by the swell of a storm. And though he can't yet cast the spell, by the fifth attempt he's able to close his hand around a golden light that glows with the same intensity as the spectral blade she's shown him.

"Very good," she says. "That's enough for today."

* * *

Galen returns to the campfire to find Dorian talking with Varric and Cole. It's becoming an evening routine for the three of them to sit together whenever Varric takes the first shift keeping watch. Cole seems soothed by his company and, as Galen knows, Dorian joins them because he's curious about Cole. He wants to understand what he is and how he thinks — so much so that he's willing to risk the occasional foray into painful memories.

And right now it sounds like Cole has just dug up another tidbit that Dorian would have preferred to keep buried.

"Yes, yes, I know my father loves me," he says, sounding weary and hassled by the need to explain it. "That isn't always enough."

"Inadvertent mind-reading again?" Galen asks as he takes a seat closer to Dorian than the other two.

It's a large camp for their larger-than-usual traveling party. Multiple tents and a couple of smaller campfires have been laid out nearby. Galen takes a look around and catches sight of Helaine returning to the tent she's been sharing with two of Cullen's soldiers. 

He watches as the door-flap falls shut behind her, and he starts to wonder if she'll keep calling him "recruit" even after he's learned all his lessons. Perhaps she'll switch to "Inquisitor," which is still strange to hear, but at least it's better than "my lord" — or even worse, "your worship." He laughed the first time someone called him that in earnest. As apprentices, he and his friends would use it as a mocking epithet. _Yes, your worship_ , they'd say, referring to the teachers they really didn't care for — though never to their faces, of course. 

"It's a shame Cole can't read _your_ mind," Dorian says, calling Galen's attention back to the present. "Then you'd know how it feels."

"Seems like it feels bad," Galen says. He doesn't need to experience it firsthand to have figured that out.

"Worse for some of us," Dorian says. "Everyone else seems to get the 'oh, no, how embarrassing, I've spilled the wine' variety of bad memory. But for me it's 'here we go, let's slice up Dorian's heart again and show everyone else what a mess it is!'"

Varric chuckles. He's leaning forward, prodding the fire with a stick to shift the logs and makes the flames leaps higher.

"Relax, Sparkler, you're not the only one he does that to. It's just that some of us are better at changing the subject."

"Oh? Change the subject away from myself, you mean? Funny, I haven't ever tried that."

Dorian's playfully mocking himself — he's more self aware than some people realize, which Galen appreciates. 

"Oh, I think you deserve more credit than that," Galen says. "You do talk about other things sometimes. Mostly to complain about them, of course..."

He's smiling, looking fondly at Dorian and watching as the shifting firelight changes the shadows that fall across his features. He _is_ very handsome.

" _You're_ in a better mood," Dorian says. "Good lesson this evening?"

Galen shrugs. 

"I still can't cast a spectral blade." 

He knows it's not realistic for anyone to master an entirely new set of magical skills after only a couple of lessons. But he also knows that a lot of people are depending on him to be stronger and better prepared the next time he faces Corypheus. It's a responsibility that weighs on him. He doesn't have the luxury of taking it slow.

"Such a pity," Dorian says. "I was hoping to see your big glowing sword."

Galen grins at him. A bit of ridiculous innuendo is exactly what he needs. 

"I was even planning to let you touch it," he says, playing along. He winks at Dorian to exaggerate the flirtation.

Varric nearly chokes on a laugh. "Annnnd, I think I've heard enough out of you two. Maybe you should take one of your evening walks — and get well out of earshot from the rest of us."

"Actually, I would like to talk to you privately if you don't mind," Galen says. 

He looks at Dorian in an unsmiling way that he hopes will convey that he's serious and not simply flirting.

"Of course," Dorian says. 

He gets up and gestures for Galen to lead the way. As they leave the flickering glow of the firelight, Galen can hear Cole's voice, sounding puzzled but working things through.

"They weren't really talking about swords..."

* * *

"What did you want to discuss?" Dorian asks.

They've reached a small clearing beyond the tents, lit by starlight and the rising moon. 

"Well..." Galen says. 

He's been thinking about this conversation quite a lot the past few days. But that doesn't make it easier.

"I'm not sure how to begin..." 

He looks up at the bright swath of stars, so beautiful and unknowable above them. Lately, he's been paying more attention to the night sky than he has in many years — a natural consequence of being outside so often and traveling through the sparsely lit countryside.

He's distracting himself on purpose. He knows it.

"Say it please, whatever it is." Dorian's voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, and he sounds concerned.

Best to just dive right in, no matter how uncomfortable it feels.

"So," Galen says, "the thing about me is..." He pauses, takes a breath and glances at Dorian, who frowns at him as soon as he stops talking. 

He knows he can't keep dragging this out. 

"...that I'm basically a monogamous person. I think it's just the way I am. But if it's different for you– if you wanted to be with other people? — for sex, I mean — it might not be easy for me at first. But I could– I mean, I know I could handle it if that's what you needed–"

Dorian holds up his hands in a slow-down-and-hold-on sort of gesture.

"Alright, I'm going to stop you there," he says. "As charming as it is to watch you stumble through this, I do have a question for you."

Galen stops talking and waits.

"What makes you think I'd want sex with other people?"

"Well, nothing specific," Galen admits. "It's just that some people do? And the two of us haven't ever talked about it."

"But it's a concern for you?"

Galen nods. He doesn't want to get into past details, but he's had mistaken assumptions around this particular issue before. Even in a more casual relationship than this one, it can hurt a lot to discover that an expectation doesn't match the reality.

"I know how I am," he says. "But I would try very hard to do things differently if you needed me to."

"You would, wouldn't you?" 

Dorian looks stunned to hear it, as though it never occurred to him that anyone would offer to change — or try to — for his sake. 

But then he shakes his head. 

"No, I'm afraid I'm not very good at sharing. Exclusivity works for me, as well. In fact, I thought we were doing that already."

"Oh. Okay," Galen says. "Good." 

He sighs with relief at Dorian's answer, then adds, "We just hadn't talked about it, so I wanted to make sure."

"Trevelyan?"

"Yes?"

"You are spectacularly awkward sometimes. And I adore this about you." Dorian smiles at him fondly. "But can we go back to the fire now? It's cold out here."


	19. Skyhold (Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: This one's just a shamelessly lustful short chapter that ends with some oral sex.

**Skyhold, Day 150**

Skyhold is starting to feel like home. In some ways it's similar to every home Galen's ever had — walled-in, significantly fortified, and full of tasks that need to be completed. The difference is that all his tasks are more important now. Even something as familiar as taking lessons from a tutor has higher stakes than it ever did at the Circle or his parents' estate.

After more than a week of practice, he's able to summon a spectral blade. And now, for three hours each morning, he runs through a series of increasingly challenging exercises under Helaine's watchful eye. The drills are easy in some ways, difficult in others. Galen's had years of practice, so he knows how to move with a sword. A magic blade isn't all that different in terms of basic moves and form. 

The hard part is modulating the substance of the blade itself. It takes focus and magical control. He's trying to do as Helaine showed him, controlling the blade mid-swing so that it can strike solidly against the training dummy on the first hit and then pass through it on the second, dealing magical damage along the way. 

He's starting to get the hang of it, but it's going to take a lot more repetition before the magic becomes less taxing and more intuitive. 

It doesn't really help that this morning Dorian is sitting on the stairs and watching him train. He claims to be reading — says that today he needed better light than what the library could offer — but he isn't even looking at his book. He's just lounging there in a roguish, attractive way and occasionally providing commentary, most of which is teasingly insulting.

"Oh, well done," he says after Galen successfully modulates his blade and it passes unimpeded through the dummy. "You aren't nearly as terrible at this as you were three days ago." 

Galen glances at Helaine, but she doesn't seem to take issue with either Dorian's presence or his flippant remarks. 

Being ignored only makes Dorian bolder.

"Perhaps you should take your shirt off," he says a short while later.

It's true, Galen's been training so hard he's beginning to sweat. And it would feel nice to have fewer layers of clothing. But he's not about to give Dorian the satisfaction.

"Or don't. That's fine," Dorian adds, still undeterred. "We both know you'll take it off for me later. Along with everything else you're wearing."

That remark turns a few heads among a group of soldiers passing by on their way to the armory.

Galen can't help but laugh, causing him to break his rhythm and lose hold of the blade, which disappears into thin air.

"Stay focused, recruit," Helaine says. "The world offers many distractions. You must do your job despite them."

Galen sighs. 

If Commander Helaine sees Dorian's presence as a teachable moment, then there's not much he can do about it. Whether he likes it or not, being heckled and catcalled is part of his lesson today.

And he does like it, more or less. From Dorian, he appreciates the attention. It's simply the timing he objects to. 

* * *

Romantic love is exhilarating, but in its early stages it's also overwhelming. Galen's been finding it difficult to focus on reports and strategy. He's prone towards daydreams. He thinks about sex all the time.

Sometimes the best way to cope is by taking matters into his own hands — quite literally.

In the early afternoon, he steals a few minutes alone in his quarters between meetings. He leans back against the door, undoes his trousers, and strokes himself off with a pace that's fast and utilitarian. He thinks about Dorian — the wet heat of his mouth and how unbelievably good he is with his tongue — and it makes the job go quickly.

Being alone gives him the luxury of whispering to himself — words he desperately wants to say with Dorian present, but he won't yet. He knows how quickly these feelings have set in. And though he's fairly certain they're mutual, he still feels conflicted and reluctant to admit to them.

"Oh, fuck, yes. I love you," he says as he spends himself into the folds of a handkerchief.

And then he's left holding the damp piece of cloth. He tidies himself up again and carefully buttons his trousers, but he can't tuck the handkerchief back in his pocket. And he doesn't want to leave it for the household staff who tend to his laundry — because haven't they dealt with enough of this lately? Does he really need to give them more evidence of how much his desires are affecting him? 

Admittedly, he was more comfortable with this sort of thing at the Circle, where collecting and washing the laundry was among the tasks assigned to the Tranquil. None of them got a thrill out of gossip and speculation, and so it never mattered much. He didn't have to think about it. 

But here it's quite different. He knows how much everyone is talking about the Inquisitor and his Tevinter paramour. And they don't mean any harm by it — though a few of the more provincial, less worldly members of the household staff seem not to have been previously aware that two men might enjoy each other's company sexually.

At least the mages, templars, and soldiers have no such ignorance. Anyone who lives for long in close quarters with a lot of other people tends to find out everything there is to know about the range and variety of sexual practices among consenting adults.

Still, he would prefer at least a little bit of privacy — rather than having absolutely everyone know that he's having lots of sex all the time.

He takes the handkerchief to the balcony, drops it onto the stones, casts a minor fire spell, and then watches as it burns away to nothing. 

It's not the first time he's done this. And it won't be the last.

* * *

He's leaving his quarters and crossing the landing when Dorian finds him.

"Ah, there you are. Here, take this," Dorian says and holds forth a folded sheet of paper. "It's a note from Leliana. Apparently, I'm deemed trustworthy now and allowed to handle your correspondence."

"She usually sends one of her people," Galen says.

He's a bit confused at why she'd ask Dorian instead. He can be decidedly prickly when people ask him to do things. Surely, she knows this by now.

Dorian grins at him.

"I believe she's aware of how frequently we slip away together during the day, you and I."

 _Of course she is_ , Galen thinks as he takes the letter. 

He breaks the seal, unfolds it, and scans it quickly. The gist of it is something to do with Venatori on the Storm Coast and information received from Bull's Qunari contacts. Her note doesn't give much in the way of details, but it seems like a pressing concern to look into — the start of another mission, perhaps.

"Thanks," he says as he refolds the letter and pockets it.

"Not so fast." Dorian catches hold of his wrist. "Where are you headed? Running off to a meeting or can you spare a few minutes?"

"I don't have much time," Galen says. "So we'll have to make this quick."

He's going to be late, but he's already decided he wants time with Dorian more than he wants to arrive promptly at another council meeting. 

He leads the way back to his bedroom and shuts the door behind them. When Dorian reaches for his belt, Galen stops him.

"That's not going to work right now. I just took care of things myself."

"Oh? Such a pity," Dorian says. "Were you at least thinking of me?"

"Do you even have to ask? I'm always thinking of you." 

He keeps his eyes on Dorian as he drops to his knees.

"We fuck every morning," Galen says. "And then an hour goes by and I'm ravenous for you all over again."

He gently squeezes Dorian's cock through his breeches. He doesn't even know where it comes from, this implacable urge to caretake and give pleasure. Four months ago this man was a stranger, but now he's become so important. 

He works quickly to undo the buttons and pull Dorian free. His cock is still soft, but it springs to attention as Galen starts to use his lips and tongue.

"It's the same for me– ahh, yes, like that," Dorian says, narrating his own pleasure as Galen takes him all in and sucks him from root to tip.

"I love this," Dorian whispers. "I love having sex with you."

It's that word again. The one they both keep using, but not yet to say I love you. 

_I love how it feels. I love what you do. I love your mouth and your hands and your body. I love how tight and hot and slicked with oil you are when I fuck deep inside you, you beautiful man._

Galen reaches up, catches hold of Dorian's hand, and squeezes. He's trying his best to convey how grateful he feels. 

For _this_. For all of this. 

Because he's certain now. He can see it in his eyes and the look on his face — that slightly stunned expression when Dorian looks down at him. He can hear it, too, in the awestruck tremble that catches in his throat when he tries to speak again.

Dorian loves him and he knows it.


	20. Skyhold (An Argument)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't have a relationship without its first real fight. So let's dive right in.

**Skyhold, Days 151-152**

Dorian can't keep still. He paces back and forth, fueled by his anger. 

"I can't believe this. You're going to ally with them!? You understand that these are real Qunari, yes? Don't be deceived by the friendly one at your tavern. They aren't all like that."

"It's not an alliance," Galen says.

He stands near the desk in his quarters, his arms crossed in front of him. He's feeling defensive — as he has been since the mission briefing concluded. 

It didn't go well. 

An hour ago, he brought the entire elite team together. They gathered — some sitting, some standing — near the fireplace in Josephine's office. And they listened as he and Leliana outlined the plan to head to the Storm Coast and rendezvous with Bull's Qunari contacts. The more information Galen provided, the more agitated Dorian appeared. By the end, he was simmering with a quiet rage, and he left the room without saying a word.

So Galen tracked him down. 

It wasn't hard to find him. Dorian had retreated to the library. And because Galen really didn't want to get in an argument in front of a dozen other people, he asked Dorian to come back to his quarters for a private conversation.

And so far, it's going about as well as he expected — which is to say, terribly.

"It's a single mission," Galen says, "a one-time collaboration for a shared purpose."

He's trying to stay calm and avoid giving in to a shouting match. But Dorian doesn't look appeased.

"Are you actually this naive?" he says. "They are trying to get a foothold in your organization. You can't just _let them_!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Galen says. His words are harshly spoken, laced with sarcasm. "Were you under the impression that I like this arrangement?"

He's been discussing this plan all day with his advisors — hashing it out and dissecting it in detail. And the reason he's been scrutinizing it so thoroughly is because he's worried by the exact same fears that are troubling Dorian. And he's becoming increasingly frustrated that Dorian refuses to recognize how limited his options are.

"But you're going along with it!" Dorian says. "That's endorsement enough. That's what people will see."

He's practically pleading now.

But what does he expect? A sudden change of plan? That's not going to happen, not after a long day of deliberation and compromise.

"Yes, I'm going along with it," Galen says. "I am. And do you want to know why?"

He's annoyed and speaking quickly. He pushes on through, not stopping or slowing down to let Dorian get a word in edgewise.

"Because the alternative is boatloads of red _fucking_ lyrium shipped to Minrathous. Is that what you'd like to see? Your homeland becoming even more of a raging mess to clean up than it is already? Because I've certainly had enough shit thrown at me from _fucking Tevinter_."

At this, Dorian's jaw clenches. He shuts his eyes. And when he opens them again, Galen can see only bitterness.

"How dare you."

It's all he says before he turns his back on Galen. 

And then, for a moment, Dorian simply stands there, as though he's waiting for some reply. But when only silence follows, he shakes his head and starts walking away, retreating towards the stairs.

Galen watches him go. He wants to say something — to protest further and explain what he meant — but his tongue feels thick in his mouth. He's grasping for words, his thoughts are racing, and the whole world feels as though it's slowing down around him. 

He looks away, towards the fireplace. He sees the flames and hears the crackle of old, dry wood. It's being consumed, soon to be nothing but ash. And all of a sudden, he feels the full weight of this long, tiresome day. 

"I'm sorry," he says.

And it's only a whisper, but Dorian pauses as soon as the words are spoken. By now he's reached the top of the stairs. His hand rests on the banister and his back is turned. But he makes no further move. Instead of leaving, Dorian waits.

Galen takes a deep breath and continues.

"I shouldn't have put it like that," he says. "Things are a mess here, too. Not better. Just — differently broken."

Dorian turns to face him. 

"We're both upset," he says. "Shall we cool off perhaps? Talk about this tomorrow?"

Galen nods. He knows he won't change his mind. But perhaps in the morning, when they're both better rested, it will be easier to disagree without resorting to harsh accusations and bitter words.

"That's a good idea," he says.

With that, he expects Dorian to turn away from him and leave. But no. Dorian doesn't do anything other than stand there. In fact, he seems a bit lost. 

"You know," Galen says, "I understand if you need to be alone. But if not, you're welcome to stay here."

Dorian blinks, looks surprised. Clearly, the possibility hadn't occurred to him. 

"I don't think I'm in the mood for an amorous evening with you."

"No. Of course not," Galen says. "That's not how I meant it."

"So, just — what? — sleep here?"

"Yes, if you'd like," Galen says. "We've had an argument, but it doesn't mean I want you gone."

Dorian shuts his eyes again. He's struggling to hold back some other emotion — not rage this time, but something that looks more complicated and vulnerable. He sighs, lets his breath out long and slow. His shoulders — previously so tense — begin to relax back down. 

Galen watches him, and feels like he has more to say.

"I took a whole day's worth of frustration out on you. It wasn't fair. And what I said–"

"Stop," Dorian says, interrupting him. "It wasn't just you."

And then he smiles — a small, slightly hurt-looking smile, but it's there nonetheless.

"I have something of a sore spot when it comes to outsiders criticizing my homeland," he says. "But I _can_ handle it. I'm not some delicate flower."

Galen nods. "Fair enough."

"And I _will_ stay," Dorian says. "I hadn't really thought of what to do next beyond storming off angrily and slamming the doors behind me. But my mother does that and I've never liked it. So let's see how this goes instead."

It's Galen's turn to sigh with relief. He was hoping for this — that their argument would end in a better place than it started. That they'd find a way to look past their hurt feelings in order to reaffirm their connection. If they couldn't manage that, he feared it wouldn't bode well for the future. And a long, loving future with Dorian is something he's been fantasizing about lately.

He's not going to admit to any of that, of course. Not yet. He keeps his reply more circumspect.

"Good," he says. "I'm glad to hear it."

And then he glances away, towards the fireplace and the balcony windows. Although it's dark outside — well past sunset — it's still too early to fall asleep. 

"I have letters to write," he says. "You're welcome to find a book and read before bed."

He points to the bookshelves behind him. They're full of titles he's requested personally — and which Josephine's people have acquired for him. It's his own small library, a mix of old favorites and books he hasn't yet read but intends to. Most are fiction, poetry, or magical reference manuals, but there are also some histories and geographies. Dorian's looked them over before and commented on a few of them. There's bound to be something he'd enjoy.

"Not a bad idea," he says. 

He goes to select a book while Galen sits down at his desk. And neither of them say much to each other after that. 

Galen still feels raw and sore — like when a fresh wound starts to heal and it needs some extra care. He imagines that Dorian must feel the same way, because they both spend the next couple of hours immersed in their own pursuits, avoiding interaction in favor of keeping to themselves. 

Still, Galen's glad to have him near. It's a welcome combination of distance and closeness. And later, when exhaustion sets in and he can't stay awake any longer, it's comforting to get into bed and fall asleep beside Dorian.

* * *

Galen wakes early. He opens his eyes, rubs his face, and looks out across the room. Through a gap in the curtains, he can see the sky, tinted in blues and purples — the delicate colors of dawn before sunrise. He rolls over in bed and finds Dorian already awake.

"I'm glad you stayed," Galen says. "I always like waking up with you."

"Of course you do. I'm delightful."

The teasing, the self-aggrandizing — Galen loves this about him. And judging by his playful comment, Dorian must be in a better mood than last night.

"Do you still want to talk about it?" Galen asks. "The mission, I mean."

"Right to business, then?" Dorian asks. "Alright. For the official record, let it be shown that I still disagree with you." 

He sounds serious about this but not upset — certainly not seething with anger the way he was before.

"Noted," Galen says, feeling tentatively pleased to hear it.

He wasn't sure what to expect from a follow up conversation, but he was hoping they could both approach it without rancor. 

So far, so good.

"Working with the Qunari is a terrible idea," Dorian adds. "But I'm coming with you. So I'll be right there to say 'I told you so' when it all goes to _kaffas_."

"Thank goodness for that." Galen grins at him. 

He was hoping that Dorian would still agree to be part of the mission. If he chose not to come along, then they wouldn't see each other for nearly a month.

The Storm Coast is a seven-day journey, and from there they won't be returning directly to Skyhold. Once they've thwarted the Venatori, Cassandra will lead them to Caer Oswin in search of the Lord Seeker. And after that, they'll keep heading south to a marsh on the northwest edge of the Korcari Wilds. Rifts have been spotted and a group of Inquisition soldiers has gone missing there. It's worth taking time to search for them and find out what happened.

"I wish we could do this differently," Galen says, "without needing to rely on the Qunari. But unless we steal some ships in a hurry, I'm not sure how we'd manage."

"Oh? A bit of piracy on the open waters?" Dorian says. "That does sound romantic. But no. I've had enough to do with ships lately. Seasick is miserable, in case you were wondering."

"I haven't tried it," Galen says. "I think I won't."

Dorian laughs and then gives him a look that Galen's not sure how to interpret. 

"I believe we have some time before Leliana sends Cullen to fetch us," Dorian says. "Would you like to–" 

He glances lower down along Galen's body — to more clearly indicate his interest in sex.

"Well, yes, we'd better," Galen says, sliding closer and reaching for him. "It could be three weeks before we're back in a comfortable bed."

* * *

Before leaving, Galen stops in to see Leliana. 

"Letters?" she asks when she sees what he carries. "Where shall I send them?"

"Nowhere," he says and hands over one sealed letter. "If my cousin arrives while I'm away, please give him this."

"I understand," she says. "This is your templar cousin from Ostwick?"

"Yes. Alec."

"And you think he can help our templars and mages come to trust each other?"

"I don't know," Galen says. "But I trust him. And I think his perspective is a valuable one. Our templars in particular need to hear it."

Leliana tucks the letter away in her pocket. 

"You and I should talk, Inquisitor. Later, when you have the time. I have ideas for the future of the Chantry — for the future of mages — that I'm starting to think you would agree with."

"Alright, Leliana," he says. "I'll look forward to it."

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
A letter

_Cousin,_

_Thank you, as always, for writing. I understand why you couldn't travel sooner or bring the others with you._

_It sounds like so much has changed at the Ostwick Circle. I'm not entirely surprised that many have left. I never expected the older templars to stay, especially given how hands-off the Knight-Commander has become. But I was shocked to learn about more of the mages leaving._

_Good riddance, it sounds like, at least with most of them. It gives Alana and Bev a core group of loyal people to work with — and I'm so glad to hear they've both taken charge of their respective groups, mages and templars._

_Their focus on uniting everyone's purpose to go out on missions, find emerging young mages, and help their families cope with the transition — it's important work. And I'm glad they aren't taking children away from their homes unless the child isn't safe. It's a good change, I think._

_Before you leave us, I'll find a way to get some of our funds allocated to Ostwick to keep your operations going. It's the least I can do. Your presence with the Inquisition, for a time, will be payment enough._

_Now that you're here, your first task should be talking to Cullen and Fiona. You'll hear enough from both of them to form your own opinions about what isn't working. And then, I expect, you can start with a few small changes in the templars' routine._

_They'll need to hear very clearly from one of their own that Meredith was a monster. And while Kirkwall was fucked from the start, everything she did made it worse. I'm getting there with Cullen, but he hasn't quite come around on that last point yet. Your words might move him._

_I'm sorry not to have been here when you arrived, but I'm so eagerly looking forward to seeing you again upon my return._

_Much love,_

_Galen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I'm picking up that Ostwick thread at the end there. I never intended to abandon it, but I also don't plan for it to intrude in a major way upon the plot of the game. So, a balance, I hope.


	21. The Storm Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreadnoughts don't sink. Cassandra tries to find nice words to describe Dorian. Galen tends to use his field notes for very personal journal entries. (But I promise, he writes up edited versions for his official Inquisition reports. So the sentence "Dorian smells really good today" does not ever end up in a report on Leliana's desk.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just caught the most awkward typo. Laughing now, but also sorry for that. Should be "up to my nose" not "up my nose." Hah! And yikes.

**The Storm Coast, Day 159**

Galen looks up at Bull and sees the sweat beading along his brow. His eye is wide open — with fear, perhaps, or with the terrible realization that he's just been set up by his own people.

The Venatori threat is real, of course. And their shipment of red lyrium has now been destroyed. But the Qunari were also using these circumstances as a means to a different end.

At least, that's how Galen sees it.

All his time spent reading about Orlesian courtly intrigue — it's honed his awareness of just how easily people can be manipulated by a subtle hint or a well-timed comment. And Gatt made it abundantly clear that the lower ridge would be safer. 

He must have known what Bull would do with that information. He'd place the Chargers there, of course — setting the stage for a test of loyalty with lives in the balance.

And no, Galen can't prove it, but he suspects Gatt knew all along how dangerous that ridge would be. 

"Call the retreat," Galen says. "Tell your men to fall back."

He's not going to play games with the lives of the Chargers. He's had drinks with them. He's talked and laughed and gotten to know them. They matter more to him than some unseen group of Qunari in the belly of a dreadnought. 

At Galen's words, a look of sheer relief washes over Bull's face. He'll be Tal-Vashoth for this. Gatt's made that clear. And still, Bull's primary impulse is to protect his company.

That's all Galen needs to see.

"Don't call him Hissrad," he says to Gatt, who keeps talking — trying to sway him — even as Bull sounds the horn and the Chargers fall back to safety.

"Hissrad, don't do this. I vouched for you, Hissrad..." 

"That's not the name he's chosen," Galen says.

Gatt glares at him, eyes full of anger. Saying nothing would have been kinder. And yet Galen can't seem to help himself — and in no small part because of the satisfied grin on Dorian's face. 

Dorian is enjoying this outcome — gloating over it, in fact. And that's not very charitable of him. But Galen can hardly blame him. These circumstances haven't lent themselves to goodwill.

On the shoreline below them, the Venatori have turned their attention back to the dreadnought. Standing in formation, a dozen mages conjure fireballs and with synchronous footwork, they launch their attack. It's impressive to watch. Even more impressive is the series of explosions that follow. 

Galen turns away from Gatt, away from the cliff's edge, and away from the splintered ruins of the dreadnought far below. He gestures for Bull, Dorian, and Varric to approach him.

"We can't let those mages get away," he says.

* * *

They regroup, meeting up with the Chargers and also with Cassandra, Blackwall, and Sera, who were guarding a different portion of the shoreline. Together, they spend the rest of the afternoon tracking the Venatori back to a secure camp, set up deep within one of the cliffside caves.

It's defensible and well guarded. Storming the entrance would be foolhardy. But Galen has a plan. It's appropriate, he thinks, to ambush Corypheus' lackeys with the same rift magic that their ancient darkspawn overlord tried to claim for himself. It's simply a matter of getting close enough to deploy it without alerting the mages on guard duty. 

He explains his idea to the others, who've gathered around him to listen. 

"The Fade vortex hits hard at first and then dissipates. It should take down the two at the entrance. And then I'm hoping the rest will come out to investigate."

He expects his mages and archers to fire from a distance. No one is to move in close. He's certain the Venatori will have set down defensive glyphs all along their perimeter.

Galen looks at Dorian, making eye contact.

"Do what you can to keep them all shielded. I'll be too far away to help."

"Don't underestimate the danger," Dorian warns him. 

"I'll be careful," Galen says.

This is exactly the sort of situation where he'd want to say 'I love you.' But that would only work if he'd said it already. With all their companions present and with a daunting set of tasks ahead, this is not an optimal first time. 

He turns away without another word and chooses his path towards the cave. He sticks to the shaded areas, half sheltered behind boulders and a copse of slender trees. It's not perfect for stealth, but it's the best he can manage.

He's crouched behind a rock — farther away from the cave entrance than he'd like to be — when he decides that he can't risk getting closer. Not without being seen. And so without standing up or revealing his position, he extends his left hand and focuses all his thoughts and willpower on connecting with the Fade.

He feels his hand vibrate as the mark activates. His palm flares brightly green and with one thought, he's able to focus on a spot near the cave and rip open a churning vortex of Fade energy directly above the heads of the two Venatori guards. They fall before they can even say a word. At full power and at such close range, they're instantly killed. 

The shouting begins moments later. Several more Venatori come staggering through the opening, trying to escape, but they've unwittingly run towards the danger rather than fleeing from it. As they cross the threshold and try to sprint past the vortex, they stagger, weakened by the swirling tide of Fade energy.

A burst of arrows and magic does them in.

By the time a third wave of enemies exits the cave, the magic of the Fade is rapidly dissipating. Galen's about to cast a chain lightning spell in hopes of slowing them down, when one of the Venatori blunders too far forward and sets off a ring of defensive fire glyphs. 

When the smoke clears, nothing moves and none of the Venatori are left standing. At least ten of them are dead. That tips the odds strongly in the Inquisition's favor and makes entering the cave a much safer risk. They'll need a plan of attack, but Galen suspects that Bull might want to take point on this one. It would be satisfying for him, no doubt, to lead the Chargers through and take down the last of their enemies.

* * *

Galen feels pleasantly tipsy. 

The mead is potent and three cups hits him as though it were twice as many. 

The Blades of Hessarian have offered them food and shelter for the night. Gatt and his fellow Qunari have long since left the area, so now it's only the Inquisition and the Chargers who hunker down, secure within the Blades' walled encampment. 

The rain has stopped and fires are burning — in a central fire pit and in several raised metal braziers — to cook and keep warm.

Galen holds a leg of roast pheasant and uses only his teeth to pull meat from the bone. It's delicious after a long day of climbing the rain-soaked hills. He sits with Cassandra, side by side. But neither of them speak. Galen simply watches and listens to the sounds of the camp all around him. 

One of the Blades throws another piece of wood on the fire. It clunks and then sizzles — too damp. The smoke rises into the humid night. 

On the other side of camp, Bull and the Chargers have been drinking cup after cup. Now they're boisterous with mead. When one of them starts singing, the rest join in. 

Blackwall is sitting nearby, laughing heartily alongside Sera. She's shakily clutching her drink, which sloshes from her goblet as she giggles. Then she ducks down and presses her mouth against the back of her hand to make a loud farting sound. 

"Right in the middle of the keep!" she says triumphantly. 

Clearly, it was the culmination of a joke or epic story, because Blackwall wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes, and says, "Good one!" before starting in on a tale of his own.

Dorian and Varric sit close to the fire. Their conversation spans many topics: literature, dwarven tradition, Tevinter architecture, and "what the fuck is wrong with the Venatori, anyway, is it something in the water?" That last one is less of a topic and more of a shared rant about why anyone would actually choose to work for Corypheus.

From time to time Dorian looks up, makes eye contact with Galen from across the fire, and then smiles to himself as he returns to his conversation.

It's after one of these moments when Cassandra takes a sip of her mead and then turns to him.

"You are good to each other," she says. "I can see it."

"What's that?" Galen asks.

His thoughts were adrift, all the way back to Ostwick — because the seaside air is fragrant with salt in a way that's old and familiar. 

"You and Dorian," she says. "I didn't like him. And I suppose I still do think he's boastful. And snide. And sarcastic and flippant and–"

Galen's laughter interrupts her. He's pretty sure she was working her way towards a compliment, but as of yet, it's nowhere in sight.

"Ah, yes," Cassandra says, "You get the point. It's easy to see his negative qualities. But he is good to you. And you are gentle to each other in a way that relieves me to see it."

Galen's not sure how to reply. It sounds as though Cassandra was worried for him — perhaps worried that he'd be drawn into a sad, difficult relationship with an unpleasant man. And she's happily surprised to see joy and comfort instead. 

He's not sure where it comes from, but he has a sudden urge to confide in her, to tell her how deeply he feels about Dorian. But no. The proximity between everyone on the Inquisition's elite team is too close. He doesn't have the luxury of talking about his feelings with a friend and confidante. Not before he's actually talked to Dorian.

"Time is strange, isn't it?" he says instead. "A day can feel like a week out here. Sometimes it feels like I've known you for years."

It's the same point, in a way, but he's addressing it sideways. It's a bit less obvious this way. 

"Yes, I know what you mean," she says. 

"Sometimes at Skyhold I overhear conversations," Galen says. "Not intentionally, of course, but you know how it is. Two mages talking, a frustrated soldier muttering to himself... When it's something so surprising and funny that I just have to tell someone, my first thought is often 'Cassandra will laugh' or 'I need to find Dorian.'"

She smiles into her cup.

"I know I don't always make it easy. But I'm glad to call you–" 

She suddenly stops. Distracted by a noise, Cassandra looks sharply over her shoulder. 

"What is Sera doing now? Is that– is she _burping_ a passage from the Chant of Light!?"

Galen's about to tell her to relax and to let it go this time, but Cassandra is already up and striding over to deal with the matter personally. 

This leaves him sitting alone, though not for long. 

"Are you drunk already?" Dorian asks after he's sat down, taking Cassandra's vacant seat on the bench beside him.

"Getting there," Galen says. "I thought it might help."

"Oh? All the killing weighing on you again?"

And Dorian's exactly right. Today was the first time he'd ever unleashed that vortex of Fade magic against other people. Sure, he's taken lives with it before — dragons, demons, and once even a very large bear. But his conscience always gnaws at him differently when he kills a person. He absolutely is drinking to ease that burden.

But that's a sad conversation. And he doesn't really want to get into it.

"That, too," Galen says. "But no, I meant talking to you. If I recall, you owe me an 'I told you so.' And probably some gloating. I thought it would wound me less if I'm not quite sober."

Dorian grins so happily to hear it. And then he leans close and brings his lips to Galen's ear. Though he's not quite touching, Galen can feel the warmth of his breath.

"I told you so," Dorian whispers. And somehow he manages to sound both teasing and seductive.

Galen smiles and leans against him.

In response, Dorian reaches down to squeeze his thigh suggestively. And it isn't fair at all, because the next thing he says is, "Try not to get yourself too worked up. I've been told tonight's sleeping arrangements involve sharing the floor of that shack with a dozen other people." 

He points across camp to the dilapidated structure with the mossy roof.

"Not quite," Galen says. 

The Blades have been extremely deferential towards him since he deposed their former leader. They've offered him better than a dirty wood floor.

"I get the cot," he says. "The rest of you peons have to sleep on the floor."

For one split second, Dorian looks legitimately offended at being told he's among the peons. But when the moment passes, he's laughing and firing back with insults of his own. 

"I can't believe they put you in charge of this organization — you're possibly the most insufferable person I've ever met!"

They would be harsh words, except for the way he says them. Dorian's demeanor is charming, flirtacious, and adoring.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Field notes, The Storm Coast

_I slept all night on a raised wooden cot with Dorian beside me, his back to my chest and my arm around him. He was planning to sleep on the floor. I encouraged him to do otherwise. Promised him it would be delighfully warmer than sleeping alone, which it was._

_Though in this instance, I suspect he joined me more to get off the floor — which is filthy — than out of any desire to sleep in an uncomfortably cramped space beside me._

_My neck is a little stiff this morning._

_Worth it, though. He always smells good, even after a day of sweat and magic, without a proper chance to bathe. I haven't changed from the shirt I slept in. It still smells like him and that comforts me. As I sit here writing I keep pulling the low collar up to my nose._

_I'd feel self conscious about it except that a few days ago at Skyhold I was searching for one of my scarves and he admitted to stealing it from my room. "It smells like you," he told me and I can't remember how he phrased it exactly, but the implication was that he took it back to his room so he could hold it to his face while bringing himself off and thinking of me._

_I offered to trade scarves with him. That way I could have the red one I needed and he could take another of mine–_

_Have to wrap things up here. Breakfast is done. Everyone's getting ready to leave. We'll send Bull and the Chargers back to Skyhold — they deserve a break after everything. The rest of us continue on to Caer Oswin._


	22. Caer Oswin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen sees Cassandra struggling with an emotionally overwhelming experience. And he compares it to a bad experience of his own from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning for memories of suicidal ideation, though fairly mild and not graphic.** If that's something you wish to avoid entirely, this chapter is easily skippable. It's not a Trevelyan/Dorian chapter and the key point to know is that Varric and Cassandra will be heading back to Skyhold at the end while Trevelyan, Dorian, Sera, and Blackwall continue to the Fallow Mire.

**Caer Oswin, Day 164**

The sun is setting and it casts long shadows that stretch out across the grounds. They seem treacherous and grasping, as though they might reach out and drag someone away with them, never to be seen again. Galen doesn't want to be here after nightfall, in this ill-fated fortress where so many Seekers were lured to their doom.

"Cassandra, we have to leave this place," he says.

"Not yet."

There's an unfocused, haunted look in her eyes as she stares down at Lord Seeker Lucius' corpse. A few minutes ago he died on her sword. 

"This is for Daniel," she whispered as the blood gushed forth and he sputtered his last.

Galen stood close enough to hear it. 

Barely ten minutes before that, Daniel died the same way. He'd been tortured for many days, forced to consume red lyrium against his will. Death was coming for him, but far too slowly to be merciful. Cassandra fulfilled his last wish and killed him to end his suffering. 

And now she's trying to act as though nothing is wrong. 

"Wait here," she says as she points across the yard to the fortress door. "I need to check the Lord Seeker's rooms. He'll have left other papers. I need everything I can find."

She doesn't wait for replies or objections, she simply strides off, intent on her purpose.

"You think that's wise?" Varric says. "Letting her go back in there alone?" 

"Not even a little bit wise. Come on." Galen gestures to Varric to follow. 

He leaves Dorian, Sera, and Blackwall outside with instructions to come search for them if they're gone beyond half an hour. 

Cassandra moves quickly. Once they're inside the fortress, they have to sprint down the hall to catch up with her. She turns and glares when she hears them coming.

"I told you to wait for me. That doesn't mean follow."

"You shouldn't be alone," Galen says. "Not here. And especially not right now."

She's not alright and he knows it. She's trying very hard to pretend she's fine, but Galen sees past it. She moves too quickly — as though she doesn't dare to stop, as though something terrible will catch up with her if she does. And when she looks at him, her gaze shifts to the distance as though she's distracted by thoughts that won't leave her in peace. Her face is a near-perfect mask of holding things together when, in truth, her whole world has been shattered. 

The Seekers aren't what she thought. They gave in to corruption and evil in a way she didn't think possible. Adding to the shock, she's still reeling from the loss of her friend and former apprentice.

"Cassandra," Galen says. "Just slow down. Will you talk to me?"

The way she's acting, it yanks him back through time by fifteen years. A rush of old images and memories rises up in his mind.

* * *

_It isn't real. It can't be. Repeat it enough and perhaps it didn't happen. Smile at Marcus like nothing is broken. Brush the hair across his forehead. Hide the sunburst mark and pretend._

* * *

Cassandra stops and turns to look at him.

He can see her, but not well enough. The lamps are still lit. They cast little pools of light in a row down the hallway with darkness in between. She stands mostly in shadow. Where the light hits her, it reflects. Her armor gleams and her face looks wet. It could be sweat from the battle or else she might be crying. 

He can't tell which.

He wants to warn her, but he's not sure what to say. He knows what can happen to a person who pretends for too long that their world isn't broken.

* * *

_It builds and it builds until it shatters. He's twenty years old again, drinking straight from a bottle. Then smashing the bottle and finding another to drink some more. He finds the highest room, breaks the window shutters, leaving only splintered wood on fractured hinges. He climbs onto the roof and looks down, far below, to the paving stones of the courtyard. A fall from this height would kill him._

* * *

"Cassandra," he says and reaches out, rests his hand on her shoulder, and he's not even sure if it's the right thing to do, but he needs her to know. 

She shouldn't even start down this path. It isn't always forgiving.

* * *

_'Where the fuck are you, anyway?'_

_He whispers his words to the wind and the night and the salt sea air. He wants to shout, but that's a risk he can't afford. If he wakes the other mages and templars they'll send him back to his room all alone. He wants to be here instead on this old slate roof, treacherous underfoot and wet from the mist. His face wet from crying._

_He whispers again, but no one answers. No Andraste, no Maker, no demon's tempting call._

* * *

Cassandra shrugs off his hand and keeps walking. 

He tries to reassure himself that everything's going to be fine. It's been a long day and he's overreacting. 

She's twice as old as he was back then, so she can handle more pain without breaking. She can afford to push herself now. She'll ease up when she needs to. She'll come to her senses much sooner than he did.

* * *

_It's wet but not raining. The air is heavy and his heart is heavy. The darkness of night is his only comfort, a cloak and a shield all in one. He's not really sure if he can bear another sunrise. And so he's peering over the edge of the roof to the darkness beyond. He's thinking very seriously about jumping, when he hears her._

_'Galen?'_

_It's Alana's voice at the window. Alana who loves the Circle, the only home she's ever had that's wanted her just as she is — as both elf and human, as a mage among mages. She looks so small and distraught._

_'What are you doing out there?' she says. 'Come back inside.'_

_His heart aches to see her so worried._

* * *

The door is locked, but Cassandra kicks it hard and breaks the latch. When the door swings inward, light pours out. There's a faint red glow in the hallway and a brighter red within. It emanates from a massive red lyrium crystal growing up from the wall.

"Oh, no," Cassandra says, and she backs away. 

She nearly stumbles, but then catches hold of Galen's arm and steadies herself. He looks at her, takes her hand, and squeezes it firmly. She responds the same way, squeezing back. Through the vice-grip pressure of her fingers, he can feel how her whole body trembles with an unvoiced grief and an unspent rage.

* * *

_He climbs in through the window and Alana takes hold of him. She shakes him once, with a loving rage, and then pulls him into a fiercely strong embrace._

_'Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me?'_

_And that's all it takes. He lets go, breaks down, and lets the grief pour out until he's crying into her hair. He's a wretched, drunken mess. A broken young man. And he keeps trying to tell her that it wasn't supposed to end like this. Love was supposed to be stronger than anything. But it all fell apart so easily. Like it was never even there._

_He sobs with the pain of illusions lost and knowledge gained. And she holds him through it — the smallest reminder that love hasn't fled._

* * *

"This all fell apart on you," Galen says. "I'm so sorry."

Cassandra nods and then releases his hand from the crushing strength of her grip. 

"You were right," she says. "We should go."

Her shoulders slump. She seems smaller and more vulnerable now as she turns away and retreats from the Lord Seeker's quarters. 

Varric sighs.

"Just what we don't need," he says. "More red lyrium."

Galen walks alongside him. Together, they follow Cassandra on her path to leave the fortress.

"We'll have to send word back to Skyhold," Varric adds. "Another place to mark on the map for lyrium destruction."

"Yes," Galen says. "And I think I have just the pair of messengers in mind."

He's ready to argue if he needs to, but he's not taking Cassandra any further on their mission. She needs time away to rest and recover. And what's more, she has a valuable book to keep safe. The last thing he wants is to lose a rare book on a trek through a festering marsh.

He plans to send Varric back to Skyhold also. Galen trusts he'll look out for Cassandra — giving her space to grieve but bothering her plenty if a hopeless mood sets in.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
An unsent letter

_Hello Marcus,_

_As always, I hope you're well. And I hope you have the time and space you need to work without interruptions or disturbances._

_Today I've been thinking about the past — specifically, about those first few months after you made your choice and became Tranquil. I didn't understand what you were going through back then — all the terrible fears that plagued you and led you to that decision._

_For a long time, the only thing I had was pain._

_It's funny, I can remember how it felt, but it's so far away from me now, it's like reflecting on the experiences of another person entirely._

_Is that what it's like to be Tranquil? Is it like seeing your past self from across a great, impassable distance? That's what I've always imagined it to be. And if so, then maybe we're not so different, you and I, in terms of where we both stand now in relation to what we were._

_I mean, I know we_ are _different. I'm still doing the whole emotions thing, for one, and the whole magic thing, for another. But when I think about you, I feel my own sort of tranquility._

_Perhaps all I needed was distance and time. You took the shortcut, that's all._

_Be safe and well,_

_Galen_

_P.S. I realize now that I'm not going to send this. I wrote it to myself. It's not for you._


	23. The Fallow Mire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fighting the Avvar, rescuing a wounded companion, kissing back at camp.

**The Fallow Mire, Day 173**

Sera's hit. 

Right before it happens, Galen can hear the incoming arrow whistle past him, slicing the air. It's enchanted or cursed — it must be — because it lands with a sickening _thunk_ , piercing flesh and leather alike. Sera, still magically shielded, stumbles backwards and then falls.

"Fuck," Galen says. And then he calls Blackwall's name, points to Sera, and hopes to the Maker that the warden understands.

Thankfully, he seems to. Blackwall retreats from the battle and goes to her — to deal with the arrow and staunch the bleeding. 

That leaves only Galen and Dorian, shielded up and standing together against three Avvar archers, taking aim. Chances are, they've got more of those dangerous arrows, so an energy shield might not do much good. A spotty defense will require a very good offense. 

Unfortunately, it's not just the archers. On the stairs behind them, a very large Avvar warlord hoists his massive hammer and prepares to charge. If anything's going to get them through this ordeal, it will have to be powerful magic. And with Dorian, that means necromancy.

"Alright, well, let's get you some corpses to work with," Galen says. 

He casts an orb of lightning, electrocuting the ground their enemies stand on. The archers stagger and their arrows fall astray. The strongest among them attempts to shoot again, but misses — dodging at the last second to avoid a blast of fire from Galen's staff.

Meanwhile, the warlord hangs back, unwilling to charge thanks to a wall of leaping flames that Dorian has pulled up in front of him. 

"Feeling good about killing them, are you?" Dorian asks. 

"They challenged us," Galen says. "Seems fair to me."

It's hard to feel guilty when their enemies have specifically requested a fight to the death. They know what they've signed up for. And if it's death they want, well, Galen knows he can help them with that. He strikes the ground hard with his staff and directs the magic downward in a lightning spell so brutal that it hits one of the weakened archers and sets them on fire. It's not a survivable hit.

"Dorian?" Galen says. 

He's fairly sure he's just set things up nicely for a helpful round of necromancy. 

"Got it!" Dorian says, and casts his spell.

His magic flies forth, dark like a bruise, and takes hold of a spirit. It was drawn by the death of the archer, perhaps to ease their passing or to record and remember their moment of death. But with Dorian's spell, the spirit finds its new purpose. It's drawn down to the body of the fallen archer, who's now up again, reanimated, lit by the purplish glow of the spell, and firing off arrows — this time against the other archers.

Not for the first time, Galen finds himself feeling grateful for Dorian's most gruesome talent.

Meanwhile, the wall of fire is quickly fading. As the flames dwindle down, the warlord charges through. In an attempt to stop or slow him, Dorian steps up. His hand is raised for a spell that would send out a forceful blast of energy. 

"Wait," Galen says, signaling for him to halt the spell. He's not convinced it will have much effect on a man that size. "I've got this." 

He moves past Dorian to face their opponent. He holds his staff in one hand and his spectral blade, illuminated bright and menacing, in the other. He thinks he's ready, but when the attack comes, he realizes he might have misjudged.

The war hammer is devastatingly powerful. Galen tries to deflect it, but ends up pressed down by the weight of the blow. Thanks to some quick footwork — just like dancing — he spins away. As he moves, he changes the intensity of his spectral blade. It loses its full solidity, and he pulls it through armor and flesh, causing a cry of pain from his attacker. 

That pain doesn't stop the man for long. He lashes out again, but he doesn't land a hit. Galen's shield is up — and thanks to Dorian's quick thinking, it's imbued with a sheath of electricity that crackles along the metal of the hammer and stings the warlord's fingers. He steps back, breaking away from the arc of lightning.

Galen presses the advantage, striking forward with his blade. Behind him, he can hear the words of Dorian's next spell and he knows exactly what he has to do: Get the Avvar to retreat just a little more and he'll trigger the fire glyphs that Dorian sets into the ground. Those should be enough take the man down.

But that fucking war hammer is not to be trifled with. The Avvar swings it again — faster than anyone should be able to wield a heavy weapon — and all Galen can do is dodge and roll, letting go of his staff and hopping up again as quickly as he can.

"Shit," he says, when he realizes what's happened.

Dorian's glyphs are right behind him now, and the warlord's gearing up for another charge. If Galen takes even one step back, he's in trouble. 

By now all of the archers have fallen. A fear spell fueled by necromancy would be powerful. But since the spirits drawn by death don't linger, all Dorian can do is attack with the elements. He lashes out with fire from his staff and then casts a bolt of lightning. In response, the Avvar roars in pain, but barely staggers. 

He keeps on charging.

There's no time to dispel those glyphs. Galen's only chance is to move forward and try to use his speed to his advantage. Hopefully, he can dodge his attacker without being crushed to death. 

He takes a breath, feels the swell of magic, and again he casts his blade. It takes shape just in time, rising up as his enemy's hammer swings down. But there's more he can do. He understands it now with sudden clarity, and he casts again, not with his voice or his hands, but with the flow of his breath. 

It's the more advanced second step of his training. He knows it well from the book — but he hasn't even tried it yet in the yard with Helaine. 

The same magic that he forms into a spectral blade can be unfurled, stretched thin, and wrapped around him. He casts it to his shoulders like a hooded cloak and then — his entire body flickers out of step with the world. His enemy is nothing but a shadow in front of him. He moves right through. 

And then he's out, emerging on the other side, with the cloak thrown off and the world shining brightly again all around him. 

Behind him, his enemy is left to charge at nothing. Unimpeded, he stumbles forward into a double row of fire glyphs and triggers them all. They ignite in a series of blazing explosions.

As soon as he hears them go off, Galen throws up his shield. He casts quickly to protect both himself and Dorian, who seems to have let his own shield falter. He isn't paying attention to the fire. Instead, he's watching Galen, speechless, his mouth gaping open in surprise and relief. It's a familiar look and Galen grins to see it. It's the same look he's sported in bed a time or two — when an orgasm hits him with a sudden thrill before he even expects it.

"How did you–" Dorian starts to ask, but then looks past Galen and says, "Hold that thought, he's not even dead yet. How?"

Dorian raises his staff and calls down another lightning bolt. Galen turns just in time to see the Avvar lord fall — scorched, electrocuted, and finally killed.

"Well, fuck me," he says. It's been a while since he's fought any person or creature with that much strength and resilience.

"Always and gladly." Dorian answers his rhetorical statement as though it were a suggestion. "But let's not with an audience present."

"Audience," Galen says, repeating the word as he suddenly remembers the big important thing he should not have forgotten. "Oh, no. Sera!"

* * *

She's heavy in his arms and she keeps shifting her weight. This makes it even more inconvenient to carry her along rotted walkways through the swamp.

"Stop doing that," Galen says. "Just be still please."

He doesn't want to lose hold and drop her into the water. It smells like festering death, which can't be good for a chest wound.

"Ugh, sorry! You're not soft and comfortable, you know," she says, and fidgets again. 

"Alright. That's it," he says. "Dorian, it's your turn."

They've reached the next mound of dry earth, raised up from the waters. It's home to one of the veilfire wards they lit earlier in the day, when they first made their way through the mire en route to rescue their soldiers. 

" _My_ turn?" Dorian asks, looking extremely displeased by the request.

"Fair's fair," Blackwall says. "She's heavy and you haven't helped yet. That's what _your turn_ means."

Dorian rolls his eyes at Blackwall, but nevertheless approaches Galen to take Sera from him.

"The things you make me do," he mutters. "Dorian, translate this document, kill those demons, suck my cock, carry this woman... The list goes on."

"Heh." Sera chuckles, looking up at Dorian as he lifts her from Galen's arms. "Bet you like at least one of those things."

"You'd be right," he says.

Meanwhile, Blackwall groans and shakes his head. 

"I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear all that."

Galen ignores them all. He stretches his arms and shoulders, glad to be free again. Sera's not especially heavy, but carrying anyone while trudging through a marsh is extremely taxing.

"Have fun," he says to Dorian. "She complains more than you do."

He expects — and fully deserves — the annoyed glare that Dorian gives him.

* * *

Back at the main scouting camp, a mage healer tends to Sera's wound and then reports back to Galen with a full assessment.

"She's lost some blood, so she'll still be woozy for a day or two. But I've healed up the worst of the damage. No poisons, no magic. She's lucky it was only an arrow."

"Strange," Galen says. "She was shielded when it hit her."

It's true, he knows that arrows aren't always deflected. They sometimes do make it through a magical shield, but traversing the barrier tends to warp and slow their path. They simply bounce off leather armor and, at worst, they hit the skin to leave a scratch or bruise. To cut through the magic and then hit so hard and sink so deep — he's never seen it until today.

"The Avvar have fighting techniques we've never seen before," Harding says. She's been standing nearby, with her arms crossed in front of her and a concerned look on her face. "It could be something like that, couldn't it?"

"I suppose," Galen says. "I certainly hope we don't have to fight any more of them."

"That would be just your luck, wouldn't it?" Harding smiles. "The Inquisition sending you off into Avvar territory to negotiate peace between warring clans?"

"Don't you dare even joke, Scout Harding," Galen says. "Andraste might hear you and then you'll give her ideas."

He laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. He appreciates her sense of humor, especially in a terrible place like this one. He'll be glad to put the stink of the bog behind him.

* * *

The pervasive smell of muck and decay means it isn't exactly romantic when he drags his bedroll alongside Dorian's. But at least they can rest side by side for a slightly more private chat than what they'd get near the campfire, where Blackwall and a few of the scouts are sitting.

"Funny when you think about it," Dorian says. "All the Imperium's perfect breeding and schooling to create the most fearsome mages and here _you_ are. Raised in a backwater, your talents neglected — even still you're as powerful as any of us."

"I guess," Galen says.

He _was_ awfully pleased with himself for mastering the Fade cloak during battle. It's impressive magic. But he forgot about that for a while. He'd been too worried about Sera to think of much else. 

Now that she's safe, he appreciates that Dorian hasn't forgotten. He's been thinking about Galen's abilities, and he sounds impressed. 

"I can't even imagine if you'd been trained in Tevinter. Mastering advanced formulas and theorems from a young age?" Dorian shakes his head to think of it. "If we'd grown up together, I would've hated you."

"Oh, I doubt that." 

Galen looks at him, his features made sharp by firelight and heavy shadow, and he can't even fathom it. Hating Dorian? He's sure he never could.

"No?" Dorian says. "I've hated almost everyone I knew from childhood."

"Yes, well, I'm older than you by five years," Galen reminds him. "That's a lifetime when you're a kid. You might've tried hating me, but I would've told you to fuck off and go play with your friends."

"Ugh, you're right. And I didn't have any friends. I might've secretly admired you. How mortifying."

"Better this way, I think," Galen says.

He shifts a little closer, leans in, and Dorian meets him halfway for a kiss that begins with all innocence, but certainly doesn't stay there. Before Galen remembers where they are, he's allowing Dorian to drag him closer until he's lying on top with his weight pressing down in all the right places. Dorian's pinned very nicely beneath him and he's busy licking into Dorian's mouth, when someone nearby clears their throat very loudly.

Galen freezes and then looks up, horrified to realize that this unplanned tryst is being observed.

"Hey, boys," Harding says, grinning cheerfully down at them and waving. "Dinner's ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like translating game mechanics into narration. Everything here with the way arrows and barriers interact is just me thinking through the logistics of that extra projectile blocking spell you get during Jaws of Hakkon.


	24. Skyhold (Original Character)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen has drinks with his cousin. 
> 
> So yes, an original character appears in person in this chapter. I'm nearly 100 percent certain this will be the only time this happens pre-Trespasser.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Journal entry, Skyhold

_Alec is here, and yet he can't stay long._

_"You're still yourself," he said. "I wasn't sure you would be."_

_None of them were sure. They got my letters, replied to them sometimes, but all the while they thought I could be something other._

_Something demon, something_ changed. 

_But no. There's never been even a remote chance of that. Cassandra wouldn't have let me live if I were something other than a person._

_A person naive as ever, I suppose, to think I could reconcile my old life with this new one._

* * *

**Skyhold, Day 184**

A pint of dark ale is waiting for him at the table. Galen sits down and joins his cousin in the Skyhold tavern. 

"I know I said I'd stay a few more days. But I really can't be away much longer. So I'll be leaving tomorrow," Alec says. 

It's the eyes, Galen realizes — both the shape and the spacing between. Alec's eyes are similar to his own and that's why people say they look alike. He can see it now because of the beard. Alec's never had one before, but it's grown in full and thick, and makes him look older than his thirty-six years. The beard hides the parts of his face — chin, jaw, and upper lip — that have always looked different than Galen's.

"Did you hear me?" Alec asks. 

"Yes," Galen says. "I understand. And I'm sorry I was gone for so much of your stay. I travel so much. The rifts..."

"Can I look at it?" Alec points, indicating Galen's left hand. 

So he turns it over, palm up, for his cousin to inspect.

"It doesn't look like anything," Alec says after squinting down at it for at least half a minute. "Just a scar. Like you tried to catch a throwing knife and got it by the wrong end."

Alec holds out his own hand for comparison. The old scar is pale and runs straight across — a testament to the Trevelyan family tendency towards recklessness.

"Look closer," Galen says. "You'll see the difference."

But Alec balks and Galen can guess the reason.

"You can touch my hand," he says. "I'm not going to contaminate you with rift goo or anything like that."

"Right," Alec says. "But it glows sometimes?"

"It sort of activates, I guess."

"Yeah, I'm not gonna mess with that." Alec sits back in his chair, moving further away from Galen's outstretched hand.

And Maker, that hurts. It's a small rejection that's symbolic of a bigger loss. 

"Look, it's good to see you," Alec says. 

"You too," Galen says, but it feels like a lie. 

There's a growing sense of distance between them and nothing feels good right now. He shuts his eyes for a moment and lets his thoughts fly back to the last time he sat down with Alec and talked. It was right before leaving for the Conclave.

* * *

_The Great Hall is quiet. Afternoon sunlight falls though the windows and casts regular, orderly patterns across the tables and the tiles of the floor._

_"You need to be careful out there," Alec says. "I'm going to worry every day until you're back."_

_Galen has no doubts whatsoever about his abilities and his training. Battle magic has always been his strength. He can overwhelm other mages if he's attacked by rebels along the way. He's also not afraid of having his magic suppressed by rogue templars. Nearly every day in practice drills he helps his own templars become quicker and gentler at the act of quelling magic. He knows what it feels like for Alec and the others to close off the pathways to that wellspring of mana. Even then, he's never left defenseless. Without his magic, he still knows how to fight._

_"You know I can handle myself," he says._

_Alec looks grim and serious._

_"Not if the odds aren't fair."_

_"I promise you," Galen says, "I'll try very hard not to get myself killed."_

_"Good," Alec says. His voice hitches as though he's trying to hold back a flood of emotion. "I can't lose you. We're cousins by blood, but to me you're my brother. You always will be."_

* * *

But that was months ago, before the rifts changed everything. There are traumas and breaks that even the deepest, truest bonds of brotherhood can't survive. 

Galen opens his eyes again to see Alec watching him.

"It's taking its toll on you, isn't it?" Alec says. And it's clear that despite his misgivings, he really is trying to offer kindness. "This wartime endeavor they've somehow made you the leader of. It's wearing you down."

"I'm doing alright," Galen says. "I do have friends here."

"So I've heard." Alec actually smirks at him, suggesting that yes, he's heard all the gossip. 

It's always been like this. Alec teases him about men and Galen returns the favor, mocking his cousin's easy susceptibility to the charms of women. Teasing, at least, is a step along the way towards renewed camaraderie. Perhaps things aren't as broken between them as he feared.

"So do I get to meet him?" Alec asks. 

"Yes, he'll be here along with the others."

"Is it serious or just for fun?"

"Serious," Galen says — an immediate reply, no time needed to consider.

"Oh, well, in that case, I'm definitely telling him all the embarrassing stories about you."

Galen smiles and for just a moment it feels the way it used to — as if time has rolled back to the days before he left. 

Before he can begin to feel sad again, Varric shows up to join them. Alec welcomes him with a beaming smile. In the few weeks he's been here, he's obviously taken some time to get to know Varric. Not surprising, Galen thinks, considering they both share a penchant for stories.

"I like this guy," Varric says. "He's been catching me up on what's going on close to home. Did you hear they're cancelling this year's Grand Tourney?"

Soon enough, the dwarf and the templar are chatting away blithely about the grim state of affairs in the Free Marches. As they talk, Galen listens. And the others arrive, one by one. Bull, Cassandra, Blackwall, Sera, and finally, Dorian, who looks even more striking than usual in a set of dark robes. Late to the party, he joins the group with a glass of something amber-gold in hand. He seems to have brought it with him.

"Sparkler, it's a tavern. They do serve drinks here," Varric reminds him.

"Ah, but not like this."

Dorian doesn't explain further, but Galen already knows what he means. He's found something Tevinter in origin — a brandy, most likely — possibly among the items seized from Venatori supply caches found along the Storm Coast. 

As promised, Galen introduces him to Alec, who grins with mischievous delight — no doubt mentally planning out those embarrassing stories. 

"This must be difficult for you," he says to Galen. "You're usually the pretty one. But not this time."

Dorian laughs, hearty and delighted, as he claims an empty chair and sits down.

"Oh, I _like_ this cousin of yours," he says.

And so far, that seems to be the consensus, which isn't surprising. Alec is likeable, more sociable even than Galen, and he's always at his happiest in the midst of a crowd. He's a boisterous man, quick to laugh, and yet he has a talent for drawing people out and getting them to talk about their lives. So Galen relaxes a little, sits back with his drink, and listens as Alec asks and answers questions, getting to know everyone better. 

Not long after that, the storytelling begins. It was bound to happen eventually. Alec brings Ostwick to life with vivid detail and lively impressions of all their closest friends. From time to time, he looks to his cousin for confirmation, and in response Galen either nods in agreement or else laughs and protests.

"That's not how it happened," he says after a particularly ridiculous story of a prank that he's certain he never participated in — at least not to the extent that his cousin's suggesting.

"You're only objecting because you don't want all your new friends to know this about you," Alec says.

He leans closer to the table and delivers his next words in a dramatic whisper that's fully loud enough for everyone to hear. 

"That's not even his worst impiety. Has he told you about his custom-bound copy of The Chant?"

"He has _not_ ," Cassandra says. 

She arches her eyebrow as she looks at Galen, and he already knows she's not going to like this one. But it _was_ a long time ago. And he can hardly ask Alec not to tell it. Not when everyone else is so eagerly awaiting the details.

"How old were we?" Alec asks. "Eighteen?"

"Nineteen," Galen says. "Old enough to have known better."

"And yet, we didn't." Alec chuckles, and then dives right in.

"It all began when the Ostwick port authorities seized a shipment of printed materials, imported from Kirkwall without a license. Among them was a crate holding thousands of copies of a blasphemous pamphlet. And when I say blasphemous pamphlet — oh, yes! — I do, in fact, mean thirty-two pages of the absolute filthiest, most pornographic poetry ever written about Andraste and the Maker. And all of it composed in the exact same style as the Chant of Light..."

Galen sits back and listens along with the rest of them. By the end of it, Cassandra does indeed look scandalized, but also amused. And everyone else is heartily laughing as Alec concludes his tale.

"...and Lissa, who worked in the Circle bindery, was still so badly in need of a new trainee that she wanted him to stay on, even after _the incident_. Technically proficient, she said, despite all the sacrilege."

Dorian wipes away a tear of laughter and comments, "Oh. It's true, he is good with his hands."

"Not what any of us wanted to hear from you, Sparkler," Varric says, still laughing as well.

"You know, Inquisitor," he adds, "when you end up learning an honest trade in the process of carrying out an elaborate prank, then I'm pretty sure you've also pranked yourself."

"Probably," Galen says.

And then he looks towards the bar and signals for Cabot to bring his table another round. The night is still young and they have so many stories yet to tell.

* * *

The next morning, Galen wakes up early and moves as quietly as he can to get dressed without waking Dorian. Outside, the sky is dark but growing brighter, and by the time he makes his way to the gates, the pink glow of dawn is visible beyond the mountains. 

Alec waits with his horse saddled up. He's dressed for the road. 

"Cold here," he says and his breath is a vapor cloud that lingers in the brisk morning air. 

"I'll miss you," Galen says. 

"This isn't goodbye," Alec says. "You'll see me again."

"You can't know that." Galen's well aware that this could be the last farewell they ever get.

"Have some hope," Alec says. "You're going to need it."

And he reaches out, catches hold of Galen's ungloved hand — the left one, marked by the rift — and as he lifts it up to look, he rubs his thumb across the scar.

"You're right," he says. "No rift goo."

Whatever Galen was expecting, it wasn't this. He laughs, relieved, and yet still anchored in sorrow — something subtle and hidden that he doesn't fully understand. It stays with him as he embraces his cousin and then stays by the gate to watch him go.

Later on, when he has time alone to sit and think, he'll read the letter from Alec and the full report that waits on his desk.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Letter from Alec Trevelyan

_Galen,_

_You're somehow at the helm of a massive organization with a wartime agenda and political aspirations._

_Be very careful._

_My advice, for what it's worth, is to keep your templars out in the field, fighting the demons that pour out of rifts. Let them keep villagers safe from the occasional possessed wolf or rampaging bear._

_I've talked to your templars. They'd all be okay with that. They are mostly young and meek and mostly weary of everything to do with mages. They aren't ready or able to do what we're doing at Ostwick. Namely, taking a hard look at ourselves and what, if any, good we've ever done._

_These days, I think we are helping somewhat. We're finding kids with the goal of keeping them safe from their own emerging magic. We suppress their magic — gently, always gently — in those moments when they end up scared. They lash out without meaning to, without knowing. I can't know it myself, but I imagine it's like when the panic takes you — heart pounding, breath gone shallow, and every part of you feels like you're dying._

_We always have our mages with us — to talk to them during and after the moment of crisis. And when it passes, as it always does, our mages are ready teach them and their parents. Until they know the calming exercises. Until they can stop on their own next time._

_But we can only do this because we have deep, deep trust among our templars and mages. We've been friends for years and now we're closer still. We talk about the future, but also the past. We talk about the abuse at so many Circles, about the way the Order as a whole has always failed._

_It isn't easy work._

_Your templars don't want anything to do with it. And you can't force them to. They just want to try and be soldiers. So let them. Let Fiona keep watch over your mages. They trust her. We both know the strength of the Veil isn't the only thing that keeps a mage safe from demons._

_Trust matters, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galen is a character who's basically had it easy, whose life path has been made smoother by political circumstances he hasn't always noticed. To allow that to happen, I think the world of Ostwick I'm putting together would have to have more than just those favorable political circumstances. It would also have to have templars like Alec, protected by family connections and ready to bully abusive templars into leaving if need be. In that regard I'm positing that a culture of abuse would be shut down from within, wherever it appears and at all costs. Unrealistic? Maybe.
> 
> But if canon can suggest Ostwick is a better Circle experience with more freedoms than most, then I think it's interesting to try to imagine what would actually have to happen to make that so.


	25. Skyhold (Sex & Love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A love confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fairly integral to the chapter, but you can still use this link to bypass the first scene, which includes explicit sex.

**Skyhold, Day 190**

_Don't say it._

It has become like a silent one-line prayer. Tonight, like every night at Skyhold lately, Galen reminds himself of the same exact thing.

The longer and more detailed version of that mantra, of course, is _Don't confess that you love him during sex._

It's an unspoken rule that he's put in place for himself recently. Sex simply isn't the context he wants for the very first time he says 'I love you' to Dorian. He's not entirely sure what the proper context is, but it's probably something romantic, like relaxing with a drink while standing on the balcony at sunset. 

That does seem a little trite, though, when he thinks about it. And it's not really his style. He's never been a sunsets and love confessions kind of guy. 

So, yes. He hasn't exactly figured it out.

He just knows that he does want to say it, and that it's probably still too soon. That's why he needs the reminder. Because if he doesn't stay vigilant, he might inadvertently say it while holding onto to Dorian and crying out in pleasure during sex.

Because that's the thing. With Dorian, the sex is astonishingly good. It has a way of ripping words from his mouth without him ever having intended to say them. He simply can't keep his guard up when they've got their hands and mouths on each other — or whenever one of them is thrust hilt deep inside the other.

And they've certainly been throwing around the l-word for weeks now — provided it's couched in phrases like 'I love how you feel.' It would be far too easy to let those extra words fall away and simply cry out the stripped-down phrase 'I love you' in the throes of heightened pleasure.

So this evening, as he pushes Dorian's back to the wall, pins his wrists, and kisses his throat, he reminds himself not to say it. A little while after that, when Dorian angles his hips, lifts his leg, and Galen works him slick and ready, he reminds himself again not to say it. When he turns him around, pulls him close — Dorian's back to his chest, to fuck standing up — he repeats the silent warning _not to say it_. 

He shifts his hips to look down at his cock — thick and ready, slicked and gleaming with oil. He doesn't know why it feels so good to do this, but he's eternally grateful that it does. And to have found a partner like this one — he's not sure what he did to be so lucky.

"Thank the Maker for you," he says, and Dorian positively moans with pleasure to hear it.

Galen adjusts his stance, presses in, and cries out at how incandescent he feels to be this close to the man he loves. He bites down on his own lip so hard that he nearly draws blood — because, yes, he can think those words all he wants, but he's still not allowed to say them.

Nobody's stopping him. 

He's stopping himself.

It's frustrating and awful, but the act of holding back is also part of the pleasure. 

The words run through his mind, keeping time with each thrust.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

He still doesn't say it.

Surely, it's far too soon to feel this way. He shouldn't be this far gone for someone he's only known for — what? — five months? It's obscene how much he feels. He wants to pour himself out until there's nothing left of him that doesn't belong to Dorian.

He reminds himself very purposely now, _Don't say it_.

And maybe there's no need to worry. He's getting close to that edge — that point of no return, of spilling over into ecstasy. It's hard to think or speak or do anything else but feel. He's lost to this stuttering motion of quick, hitching thrusts. And Dorian — _his_ Dorian — is pulled tight and solid against him. One leg raised, knee bent, he strokes himself off while he takes it. 

But then it happens — the words rise up. Galen starts to say them. Until somehow, at the last second, he veers away from 'I love you' and finds his way out with another phrase entirely.

"I look at you," he says. 

Even in this altered state of rising pleasure, he has the awareness to realize that the statement can't stand on its own. He has to find more words — and, what's more, they ought to make sense. He's too far gone to think it through, so he lets the words flow straight up from his chest and belly. And when he lets them go, they feel truthful and powerful like an incantation. 

"I look at you, and I don't even care that you're beautiful," Galen says. "I only care that you're Dorian. _My_ Dorian."

And Dorian responds with trembling words of his own, "Yes, always..." 

And he says something else after that — a strange word, in Tevene, most likely — but then it's not even words anymore, just both of their voices calling out together. Dorian goes first and then Galen swiftly follows. As he spills inside he mouths the words 'I love you.' 

It's alright, though. Because Dorian, facing away from him, is none the wiser.

* * *

In the quiet moments after — before they've even thought about getting cleaned up — they find their way to the bed and lie down together. It feels so good just to rest.

For a minute or two, the only sound is their breathing. Galen's chest heaves with the need for more air. And every drawn breath feels excellent and perfect. As his thoughts return to him in the wake of such mind-numbing bliss, he amuses himself by considering the fact that nobody ever judges you for breathing too much. 

If you fuck a lot, the gossip-mongers start to use words like 'hedonist' along with your name.

_Trevelyan's such a hedonist._

Maybe so. 

But if breathing brings pleasure — and also food brings pleasure — then isn't pleasure what keeps you alive? In a way, isn't pleasure among the most important things? 

There are books of political philosophy that say otherwise. He's been reading a few of them and they aren't much fun. 

"That was something." Dorian sounds quiet and drowsy, but also deeply satisfied. 

The sound of his voice pulls Galen out of his previous thoughts and reminds him he's curious about something.

"Come on," he says. "Where's the language lesson? What's that word mean?"

"What word?" Dorian asks.

"The one you said. In Tevene, was it?"

"Oh," Dorian says. "Yes."

He falls quiet, and doesn't explain any further. 

"What was it? More creative cursing?" Galen grins at him. He's always glad to learn new ways to swear. "Say it again?"

"Amatus."

"Yes, that," Galen says. "So what's it mean?"

Dorian's quiet. He takes a breath and then lets it out in a long, slow sigh. When, at last, he answers, he's not very forthcoming.

"Oh, nothing much."

Galen frowns. He turns his head to look at Dorian beside him. To Galen's eyes, he looks relaxed, but tired, and maybe a little bit sad.

"You don't want to tell me?"

"Yes, alright, I'll tell you," Dorian says. "But first tell me what you meant by 'I don't even care that you're beautiful.'"

"Oh," Galen says, thinking back for a minute to those words that he pulled out of nowhere — as a way to avoid saying something else. "Well, you know..."

His words trail off. It seems the roles are switched now. He's the one who falls silent, while Dorian pushes him further.

"No," Dorian says, "I actually don't know."

This time, it's Galen who sighs. 

"It's just that–" He stops and thinks for a second. 

Unplanned, yes — but they weren't _empty_ words. Not at all. He meant something by them. And he's not quite sure he can properly express the sentiment. 

"Well," he says, "beauty fades. With age or misfortune. And I don't care about that."

He frowns for a second and bites his lip as he tries to pin down the rest of it. 

"I mean, you _are_ beautiful. That drew my attention, of course. How could it not? And I _love_ the way you look."

It's that l-word again. He can't really avoid it at this point, but he still keeps it couched in other meanings. It's love, but not quite an 'I love you.' Not yet.

He keeps going.

"I do, I love your beauty," Galen says. "But the way I feel isn't– Look, you could lose all that and I'd still feel this way about you. About who you are."

He sighs again and realizes that his right hand is now pressed to his chest, above his heart. He must have moved it there while he was busy explaining his feelings.

"Hmm," Dorian says, and then he's quiet again for a while. 

He stares up at the ceiling, keeping track of the moving shadows, perhaps, from the candles and the firelight. And then all of a sudden, he speaks up again rather quickly, as if reciting a translation he's read in a dictionary.

"Amatus is a term of endearment that means 'one whom I love.'"

A second later, he turns to look at Galen and his eyes go wide in delayed reaction. It's as though he suddenly realizes he's actually been bold enough to say it out loud.

And it's breathtaking, isn't it?

Lying here together in the warmth and dimness of the firelight, they seem to have teamworked their way to a love confession.

"Amatus," Galen repeats the word, getting used to the sound of it. "So... meant for me, then?" he asks. "Or self-referential on your part?"

He grins. Even with this, he can't help himself. The chance to tease Dorian about the extent to which he admires himself is too good to pass up.

It takes a moment for the joke to land, but when the meaning sinks in, Dorian laughs, loud and delighted, so that the bed beneath them shakes with it. 

"Meant for you," he says.

And with that, there's really no reason to hold back any longer. Galen's just about to admit to his feelings — to actually say 'I love you' — when Dorian sighs in a way that sounds heavy. When he speaks again, his words are infused with a deep and complicated sorrow.

"I wasn't looking for any of this, you know. Felix warned me about you and I didn't listen."

Galen's smile disappears, his brow furrows, and — as sometimes happens — he feels not quite quick enough to follow along all the fleet and complicated pathways that Dorian's thoughts have been taking.

"I don't understand." 

"After Redcliffe," Dorian says. "Before I sent him home, I told him I was going to join you and your Inquisition. It was one of the last things he ever said to me. 'He's your type, Dorian — handsome, confident, can't take his eyes off you. But stay away from him if it turns out he's cruel. You've had enough cruel men in your life.'"

"But I'm not–" Galen starts to protest, but Dorian swiftly interrupts him.

"No. No, you aren't," he says. "Not even a tiny bit cruel. But you will be. When _this_ kills you" — he reaches over, takes hold of Galen's left hand, and squeezes it tight — "or when something else does, you're going to break my heart."

Galen breathes. He'd been holding his breath without realizing it, afraid of what Dorian might say. But now he feels only relief. This type of sorrow — the abiding fear of loss — is something he knows how to handle. It's been a familiar and longtime companion.

"If that happens," he says, "it won't be by choice. I don't _want_ to leave you."

"And yet that's not much comfort." Dorian shuts his eyes. "I love you and I hate it." 

"You _hate_ it!?" Galen's sure that's not true. Dorian's being hyperbolic, as usual. But even still, it hurts to hear.

"Yes! And no." 

His voice sounds raw and heartbroken. He looks like he's fighting back tears. 

"Where were you before the world was torn open?" Dorian asks. "Why couldn't we have had years and years of this?"

_We still could_ , Galen thinks. But that's only a hope. And with Corypheus out there, targeting him and the whole world as well, nothing about the future is certain. 

"Oh, my love," Galen says instead. "I'm so, so sorry. I wish we could have a full lifetime."

He moves closer and reaches out. And for a long time after that, they simply hold onto each other as the room grows dark and the fire burns low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so looking forward to writing this chapter. I suppose it might feel a bit sad for a love confession? But to me it hits all the notes that I need and I find it so deeply satisfying to have it go like this.


	26. Skyhold (Love, continued)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love, loss, and futures worth imagining. A chat with Morrigan. A phallic flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a really quick, two paragraph sex scene that you can skip by choosing to follow the link just beforehand. I swear, I really never planned for Galen to be so thirsty, he just is.

**Skyhold, Day 191**

Galen wakes before dawn. 

He opens his eyes in the darkness, and his first thought is that last night's conversation was real. He didn't dream it. He and Dorian both admitted to their very much requited love. And then they held on, taking comfort in each other's arms despite the weight of sorrow that settled between them when Dorian confessed all his fears.

Love and loss. 

Two sides of the same coin — that's a saying he remembers. Someone told him that once. But for the life of him, he can't recall the context. It was an older mage, he thinks, and he was still fairly young. Perhaps it was someone trying to offer him comfort in the days when Marcus was newly Tranquil. 

But no matter who said it, the point is, now that he's older, Galen doesn't think that's quite right. Love isn't the half side of anything. Love is the whole — the very fabric of existence, perhaps. 

And loss? It's just the other name love goes by. 

Because they are, in fact, the same. Love is loss and loss is love. And that's the thing about demons. They come with sweet words, bearing promises to erase all the pain. But that can't ever work. There's no way to get the loss out. To do that, you'd have to destroy all the love.

And so that's why he's pretty sure he's not a good candidate for temptation. It's the same reason he's not a good candidate for faith. Because as far as he can see, there's no secret way out, no path to redemption. It doesn't matter if you pray to the Maker or make bargains with demons. 

Love is going to hurt. That's part of its nature. 

But love is also the only thing that makes life bearable — it's the only thing that's grand enough and good enough to fight for. And so there's no use shutting it out when it shows up at your doorstep. Welcome it in, but know that you're also welcoming loss. It's there in the loving, right from the start.

 _I should probably write all this down_ , he thinks. 

But he doesn't want to get up and go to the desk. The bed is warm and Dorian hasn't yet woken. His breath moves softly in the peaceful rhythm that sleep affords. So Galen shuts his eyes and lets himself indulge in the fantasy of a future life — a life where they're both still alive, growing older side-by-side with an ever-deepening bond between them as the years go by. 

They'd make a home together somewhere, sharing a bedroom much like this one — spacious and tidy, full of light and full of books, with a beautiful bed to wake up in. At night and in the mornings they'd still make love. They'd desire it as much as they both do now. And it would be even better than ever because of how well they'd come to understand each other in all their years as lovers. 

He imagines the two of them in their fifties or sixties, with dark hair gone silver, or starting to. It's a wonderful image, and it probably won't ever happen. But he's going to fight for it anyway. 

Because what's the point of living otherwise?

He sighs and rubs at his chin, letting his thoughts veer back to the practical. He's going to have to shave today — a perpetual chore. He likes to go a few days without it. It's easier that way and it makes him look more handsome, he thinks, to have a bit of shadow growing in. It's roguish in a way that Vivienne detests but Dorian admires. skip

The room grows brighter. As the sun rises over the mountains and its first light spills through the windows, Galen gets up to relieve himself and then returns to bed. Dorian wakes soon after that. And before long they're enjoying the laziest variety of morning sex — with gentle hands to stroke each other until they're equally hard and the need for release takes over.

The only difference this morning is that in addition to whispering encouraging words — _yes, that's good_ and _faster now, please_ — Galen adds an _I love you_ and Dorian, in response, draws an audible, wavering breath as he shivers with pleasure to hear it. Neither of them last long after that. 

As they lie back, relaxing, Dorian is first to break the silence.

"Amatus," he says. "I should never have said that word. You're going to be insufferable now because of it." 

He's smiling, however, and Galen grins back at him. He knows he has to get up soon — a morning full of meetings awaits — but he cherishes these little moments. The teasing, absurd conversations, and the pleasant lulls when neither of them speak. All the love is here, resting with them. It lives in the space and the laughter and the gentle silences between them.

"Yes, that's what I'm talking about," Dorian says, eyes narrowing as he studies Galen's expression. "That look, right there. So smug and self-satisfied. Far too pleased with yourself."

"Don't I have reason to be?" Galen asks. 

He's teasing and so he doesn't expect a serious answer. 

"You do, in fact," Dorian says. "Probably more than you realize."

"What do you mean?"

"Back home, an altus like me — or a magister for that matter — would _not_ use that word to refer to another man. It simply isn't done."

"Not even privately?" Galen says. "Who would know?"

He's been wondering whether this topic would reemerge eventually. Dorian talked about Tevinter's restrictive milieu in the immediate aftermath of his father's visit to Redcliffe. But then he stopped talking about it and Galen felt no great need to pry. It occurs to him now that he has trouble imagining how an entire ruling class could successfully prevent everyone among their ranks from pursuing romances and declaring their feelings where they saw fit. How would that even work? 

"No," Dorian says, "not worth the risk. It would be among the worst of secrets — something that, if revealed, would bring ruin."

"Ruin?" Galen asks.

"Public shame and disavowal. A fall from grace and power. The threat of Tranquility if you don't fall in line. That or... some variation on what my father tried to do to me." 

Dorian shakes his head. 

"I knew things were different here, but _this_? You're the Inquisitor, for Maker's sake. And beyond the petty joy of gossiping about us, nobody cares that you prefer my company."

Galen knows very well that some of that beneficence is Vivienne's doing. True to her word, she's been crushing the life out of all the most malicious rumors — the ones where Dorian is the evil magister using blood magic and mind control to have his way with the gentle and trusting Inquisitor.

"You've never felt shame a day in your life, have you?" Dorian asks.

But he's wrong. The stigma of magic comes to mind.

"Well, yes, of course," Galen says, "shame for days, but not about this."

Though, now that he thinks about it, it's been a while since he's felt that twinge of shame in being a mage. He's been whittling away at it, destroying its foundations within him — a striking change that's happened little by little as he works for the Inquisition. Galen also never considered the extent to which Dorian may be working to banish his own discomfort and shame. In a way, they've been modeling it for each other — what it looks like to live without that internal voice of cruelty and judgment. Dorian bears no shame in magic and Galen has none in sex. 

"Even at a permissive Circle like mine, nobody wanted mages having children. That's never been a chance with me and anyone I've slept with. So... model mage behavior on my part," Galen says. "It's hard to feel ashamed of something everyone appreciates about you."

"How entirely opposite," Dorian says.

"Mmh," Galen says, a soft noise of affirmation.

He still doesn't want to leave. But the room is brightly sunlit now and the time he can spare runs short. So he leans in to kiss Dorian and then gets up to shave and dress and get ready for the day.

* * *

A small crowd of mages and soldiers stands nearby to watch Galen's lesson. Helaine approves of their presence — as she approves of anything that could shake his focus and distract him. And today especially, he needs plenty of focus and discipline. 

She's having him raise up a wall of fire and then cast his Fade cloak to step right through it, unscorched. She waits on the other side to attack him with her spectral blade.

"Good," she says, when he completes his task and successfully fends her off.

_Good. Very good. Excellent._

He earns high praises today. And each affirmative word helps chip away at more of the shame. The crowd helps, as well, gasping and cheering at the advanced display of magic. They even laugh, delighted, when Galen throws up a barrier, protecting all of them at once from a stray lick of fire, caught by a downdraft of wind.

"Fire's dangerous," he reminds them. "Give it some space."

He does notice that his first thought isn't to say 'magic is dangerous.' 

For him, that's new.

* * *

The garden smells of rich earth and fresh-picked spices. It's a pleasant change after an hour spent in the war room discussing the plans for their next journey. He's here in this quiet, cloistered space to meet with the herbalist. She asked to speak with him, but she's nowhere in sight. 

And so Galen wanders over to the only other person occupying the garden at the moment.

"I trust all's well?" he says. "You and your son have been comfortable here?"

Her answer is both affirmative and polite. 

He has the sense that's all he'll ever get from her — pleasant answers for the nice man who doesn't actually wish to hear the truth about her life.

Morrigan's an interesting one.

She has already offered him reassurances. While she knows many arcane and forbidden magics, she will not use them while she remains with the Inquisition — except at his behest. And asking her to use blood magic or perform some dangerous ritual? Galen knows himself well enough. That's not something he's ever going to request. At least, not under any circumstance that he can foresee.

And so Morrigan has the freedom to roam the fortress and its grounds — to go wherever she likes, restricted only by the gentle restraints of custom and good manners. (In other words, knock, please, before entering someone's private quarters.)

He knows Leliana has one of her people assigned to keep track of Morrigan's whereabouts at all times. That's precaution enough. And so Galen himself doesn't worry about whether to trust her — which doesn't mean he's going to give her all the information she wants, but it does mean he's happy to speak with her as if she were a friend.

"So," she says. "Now that I've had ample time to acquaint myself with your Inquisition, I'm curious. What are your plans should Corypheus be defeated?"

For a split second, an image flashes to mind — a seaside home in the summertime, with a library for Dorian to sit and read, sunlight and good food, firelight and lovemaking. He's still anchored by that image when he replies.

"I'd like a quieter life than this one," he says. "If there's a way to become an ordinary person again after this, I'd like to find it."

She looks at him for a moment, and it seems as though she's sizing him up and assessing what she sees.

"A good little Chantry mage free from his leash. Does he want his pretty cage back?"

She smiles at him, and he recognizes the delighted spark of humor. She's teasing him.

"No," he says. "Not like that. I'm done with Circles."

He realizes the truth of his statement as soon as he says it. If the Circles are restored, he doesn't want to go back. As the Inquisitor, he won't have to. But even if he retires from that title, he's also a newly trained Knight-Enchanter. As such, he wouldn't ever have to see the inside of a Circle again if he didn't want to. There's that privilege and exceptionalism that Helaine likes to speak about.

Morrigan hones in on it, as well.

"And is that a courtesy you would extend to your fellow mages?" she asks.

He's not really sure how to answer that question. So he shifts away from it, just a little.

"The next Divine will decide all that," he says. "Whoever she is."

"Perhaps one of yours. Or so I've heard."

Galen nods.

"I've heard the same," he says. "But nothing's certain."

Morrigan smiles again, but this time she looks away, her gaze shifting across the garden and then moving upwards to take in the full height of the battlements and towers.

"I have a suspicion about you," she says.

"Oh?"

"You desire knowledge beyond what your Chantry would teach you. Knowledge that would help you defeat Corypheus, yes. But beyond that, as well. And for reasons of your own."

"Maybe so," Galen says. He's not sure what she's getting at. 

"Knowledge can bring power," she says. "Perhaps that is what you seek? I haven't failed to notice that you also build friendships with influential companions, thus tying their loyalties to you more and more with each passing day."

He nods.

"I suppose it does look like that, doesn't it? Like we're trying to build some kind of powerful new empire?"

"A decade ago that is the only possibility I would have considered," she says. 

"And now?" he asks.

Morrigan looks at him again. And Galen gets the sense that she's thinking things over — perhaps to choose her next words very carefully.

"Time changes us all," she says. "I've since found that influence affords protection for those you love. And lacking influence, it is knowledge — and the will to use it — that can free a mage from many dangers."

She smiles again, more softly this time, and before he gets the chance to ask another question, she turns away from him.

"My son will have finished his lessons," she says as she starts to walk away. "Best I find him before he amuses himself 'borrowing' pretty magical things from your mages' tower."

* * *

He's only left alone for a moment. Galen turns at the sound of a quiet voice behind him.

"My lord Inquisitor, if you have a moment?"

The herbalist, Elan Ve'mal, has arrived. She is holding a potted plant.

"Do you know what this is?" she asks.

And the answer is yes. He knows exactly what it is. Marcus was always interested in plants and potions, even before his Tranquility. And so, of course, this particular plant stood out — for laughter and pranks and all manner of general mockery. 

It's the Amrita Vein — an unfortunate name for a rare flowering plant that, in its shape, resembles a very large penis. Why couldn't it just be the Amrita, named for the hedge mage who discovered it? Why in the world did they have to go and tack the word 'vein' onto the end. Does it have a vein? Galen's not sure, but if so, how doubly unfortunate for a flower that looks like that.

"I know what it is," he says.

"Good," she says. "Then you know of its uses. We need a lot more of these. When you're out in the western deserts, I hope you'll make this a priority and bring back whatever you find."

"Of course." 

"Excellent," she says. "Then... if you don't mind taking this with you? To show the rest of your team?"

"Sure," he says. "Why not?"

* * *

When Dorian shows up, Galen is sitting on a garden bench with the potted Amrita beside him. 

"What's this?" Dorian asks. "Oh, let me guess. Is it... a suggestive diplomatic gift from that comtesse who wants you to wed one of her daughters?"

Galen laughs, and moves the plant to the ground at his feet, freeing the bench for Dorian to sit beside him.

"No, it's to do with an herb collecting mission when we're out in the deserts," Galen says. "We need more resistance tonics for the soldiers holding off demons near active rifts. So our whole team needs to be able to recognize this flower. We'll collect as many as we find."

"Charming," Dorian says.

He leans in to greet Galen with a kiss. It's relatively quick, and yet still sensual, with parted lips that linger together for longer than a public hello should warrant.

"Learn anything useful from the magister?" Galen asks.

Because that was Dorian's most pressing task this morning. He was to speak with Alexius in his prison cell and try to find out if the magister could guess what reason Corypheus might have to summon wardens and Venatori alike to the far deserts of western Orlais.

"I learned," Dorian says, "that gossip makes it way to the dungeons just as well as it does everywhere else."

"Oh?"

"Alexius called me a disappointment to the Imperium. 'I thought you aspired to be a man of importance. Instead all you are is an important man's plaything.'"

Galen scoffs at this. "Oh? So I'm an important man now? He wasn't impressed with me before."

"Don't listen to him," Galen adds. "He's just trying to get to you."

"Well, it didn't work," Dorian says. "Though it does hurt to see him this way. I thought the world of him. And now..."

His voice trails off, regretful and sad. And Galen is reminded of how much Dorian's life has changed these past several months. He's far from his homeland, estranged from family and mentors alike, and he's still mourning the loss of Felix, his trusted friend. That's a lot for anyone to cope with. It's true, Dorian doesn't have a creepy piece of Fade magic burned into the flesh of his hand, but that doesn't mean he hasn't suffered through upheaval and loss.

"Perhaps Alexius can still come back from this," Galen says, attempting to comfort him. "Maybe we all can."

Dorian gives him a lopsided smile.

"You have a lot of faith in people," he says. "Maybe too much. It _could_ get you killed."

Galen nods. "I'll try not to let it."

"What? Promises? For me?"

"For you," Galen says, and then he leans closer to speak more softly. "I love you."

"You see?" Dorian says. "Insufferable."

But he leans in even further, closing the rest of the distance between them. He takes hold of Galen's hand. And for quite a while after that, they sit alone in the garden with their fingers interlacing as they kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely no good at story playlists, but what I'm listening to on repeat lately as I write these recent chapters are the following: Vamala by Champs, Monsters by Angus Powell, Up For Life by Kite, and Maria by Blondie. Mood varies by scene, obviously...


	27. The Exalted Plains (Only One Bed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen tries not to be overbearing. Vivienne needs a heart. There's one bed at the inn. And some bathing together — sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text that says [skip] will hop right over a short lovemaking scene.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Notes from the Field, The Exalted Plains

_Here we are again, camped on the battle-scarred plains. Tonight, as we camp, a somber mood holds sway over all of us. No laughter at the fireside this evening. We all seem to keep to ourselves. It's a mood that's been creeping up on us since we left Skyhold nearly a week ago. Bull, Dorian, and Cassandra were feeling it sooner than most, and each for reasons of their own._

_Last week I watched as Bull thwarted a Qunari assassin sent to kill him. He assured me it was only to send a message — that he truly is Tal-Vashoth — and that there won't be any further attempts. His brooding took hold after that and not even the prospect of killing 'Vints' out in the desert seems to cheer him._

_The night before we left, Cassandra and I spoke for a long time about the Seekers and the Rite of Tranquility. I reassured her — told her that the Seekers can still have value. Even if we never reinstate the Circles, we'll still need a well-trained order of guardians who can keep us safe from the most malicious magical artifacts. (And yes, the orb that Corypheus wields comes to mind.)_

_Cassandra moves through the world with a stoic dignity, and a sense of justice and purpose. If anyone can rebuild and reform the fallen Seekers of Truth, it is her. When I told her so, it seemed to cheer her. And yet she's been pensive these last several days._

_As for Dorian, I'm only guessing, but I think he needs some time to himself and some distance from me._

_This is the point in the relationship where a couple of teenagers would panic and cry and worry that everything is broken. (I remember all of that well enough.) But in fact it's quite the opposite. Relationships grow deeper this way._

_We've been so very close lately — and that's a significant change for both of us. Neither of us were even casually involved with anyone for more than a year before we met. I think we both need the time and space and solitude to process what it means to be so intimate with someone._

_I desperately want this to last — provided I live long enough for anything to last. And so his quiet mood is something I ought to be glad for. We both need the space, I think. And if it were only up to me, I wouldn't allow any. I know how I am — a bit reckless about these things, chasing closeness to the point of ruin. It's good that he keeps me in check._

_But it does dampen my spirits a little._

_And now that we're back here in this muted landscape of smoke and ruin, I think all of us feel the weight of so much death and destruction. The rifts are closed, yes. And the demons are banished. But the Orlesian soldiers remain, walking the ramparts and patrolling the burnt-out villages. They seem dull-eyed and weary of living. We asked them if they'd seen a snowy wyvern and none could say._

_Tomorrow morning we'll talk to the Dalish who camp nearby. Perhaps their hunters have seen some sign of the creature._

* * *

**The Exalted Plains, Day 199**

All the demons are destroyed and the elven burial grounds is silent. It's a sad, morbid place and Galen doesn't like being here. But he takes a moment to look around. He stands among dozens of tombs and urns with their inscriptions worn away. He keeps hoping he'll find one he can read. And he isn't sure why except that it feels sad to think that nothing remains. He thinks even one memory of one long-dead person might comfort him.

When at last he finds a legible inscription, he shuts his eyes and sighs. 

"Well, that's ominous," he says. 

"What is it?" Cassandra asks as she approaches.

He points down to where a very small urn holds the remains of a child. Across its curved surface, a few words are written in memoriam.

_Here, the ashes of little Galen. Your laughter lingers in our hearts._

"Do you think it's bad luck to find your own given name on a grave marker?" he asks.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "Do you know how many Cassandra Pentaghasts have come before me?"

He looks at her, curious and slightly amused. He's not sure where she's going with this. 

"I don't."

"Neither do I," she says. "But I suspect the Mortalitasi could round up quite a herd of them."

He laughs — a loud sudden bark amidst the quiet of the graves. And he shakes his head at the gruesome thought of a Nevarran mausoleum filled with undead corpses of past Cassandra Pentaghasts.

"You see? Ridiculous to even think of it." 

She kicks at the dry earth, stamping clods of mud from her boot and raising up a little dust cloud in the process. 

"The Maker claims us all in His own time," she says, "and for His own purpose. Don't fret about some dead elven child who shared your name. It would be arrogance to see it as a warning meant for you."

Before he can answer, she turns away from him to catch up with the rest of their companions, who are already leaving the burial grounds. They have much more to do, many tasks to prove their benign intentions to Keeper Hawen before he'll talk to them as allies. It will likely keep them busy all day. 

But the land is wartorn and resources run scarce. Galen doesn't begrudge the Dalish their caution, nor their many requests.

* * *

**The Exalted Plains, Day 200**

It's not a wyvern, not truly. 

The snowy wyvern, it turns out, is a rare variety of gurgut that they find prowling through the marshes. Pale white and rippling with solid muscle, it's got a massive jaw that could unhinge to swallow a man whole.

It takes all nine of them to slay it — not because it's a particularly fearsome fighter, but because they've all just killed a nearby dragon. Keeper Hawen's hunters warned them not to stir its wrath, but despite ample caution, they did. That was the fight that took the wind out of everyone — and drained most of the mana from Galen, Dorian, and Solas alike.

Now, with the gurgut dead, Blackwall sets to work butchering it to get at the heart. Galen, completely inexperienced when it comes to hunting things for meat and hide, appreciates the presence of someone who knows what they're doing. It's a messy job. But with great skill, Blackwall carves out the heart and presents it.

"What now, Inquisitor?" he asks.

And Galen, for the first time, starts to think through the logistics of what comes next. He immediately sees the full scope of their problem. 

"Vivienne's in Val Royeaux," he says. "That's days away. We can't camp in the open with this butchered heart among our things. Even with ice spells to preserve it, the wolves will catch wind of us for miles." 

And the wolves are fierce here. Hungry and aggressive, they roam the plains in search of any prey they can hunt or scavenge that the soldiers haven't killed and eaten already.

Normally, at an Inquisition camp they would tie up their food, suspending it from a tree branch to keep the wolves and bears away. But they can't do the same with the heart. If they even tried, they would risk having the ice spell falter. It's a spell that will have to be delicately reapplied so as not to damage the tissue. That means close contact — quite the opposite of firing an ice bolt halfway up a tree every couple of hours throughout the night.

"A few us will have to ride ahead," Galen says, "and find inns along the way. Maker knows where."

"I know where," Cassandra says. 

She's been standing beside him, watching and listening. She offered to butcher the beast herself, but Blackwall knew he could do it faster and better.

"We take the fastest horses. You and I," she says. "And Dorian comes with us. We'll want two mages, just to be sure."

It's a simple ice spell. Any mage with a decent grasp of the elements should be able to handle it.

"You know it doesn't need two mages," Galen says, quietly and for her ears alone.

Cassandra cuts straight to the point. (Unless the topic is romance novels — her own guilty pleasure — she rarely dances around an issue. It's one of the things Galen appreciates about her the most.)

"You were going to ask him anyway," she says. "I saved you the trouble."

* * *

They arrive at the small crossroads village just before sunset, as Cassandra expected they would. After they've paid to stable and feed the horses, they make their way to the tavern, which doubles as an inn. It looks old, but well kept. And there doesn't appear to be a dedicated innkeeper, so Galen shrugs and heads directly to the bar. With Cassandra and Dorian beside him, he speaks to the bartender and inquires about a pair of rooms.

"For tonight, my lord?" the man asks.

He doesn't seem to recognize them as three of the Inquisition's elite. Instead, he applies the honorific based on clothing alone. Even battle-stained and dusty from the road, there's no denying the richness of their robes and armor. 

"Yes, for tonight," Galen says. "We leave in the morning."

"I'm afraid there's only one room left, my lord. And just the one bed."

"We'll take it," Cassandra says. "That's better than nothing."

Galen nods, agreeing with her. It's not as if they haven't all shared the same tent on nights when the rain comes pouring down around them. A shared room indoors, no matter how cramped, should be far more comfortable than that.

"I can have a couple of cots brought up for you, if that will do?" the man offers.

"One cot," Galen says. 

Despite having kept some distance these past few days, he does expect to share the bed with Dorian. That's what they do, after all, whenever a bed is available. Although they won't be intimately involved — not with Cassandra present — it will still be comforting to sleep side by side. 

"Might I warn you," the bartender says, "it's not a wide bed, my lord. Unless you have — well, like a husband and wife situation going on — you _will_ want both cots."

The man glances from Galen to Cassandra. He looks skeptical, as though failing in his attempt to imagine Cassandra as anyone's wife. 

Galen sighs. 

He's tired and doesn't wish to keep the conversation going. It's easier to agree. And besides, if the bed truly is uncomfortably narrow, then they really might make use of a second cot. 

"Both then, thanks," he says.

But he does want to make it clear to the bartender that his assumption is neither warranted nor appreciated. So he turns to Dorian and touches his arm — gently, in a trailing caress, with no chance of anyone mistaking it for something other than an intimate gesture. 

"An extra cot. Think of it, love, you can kick me out of bed if I misbehave."

Dorian, whose expression seemed blank and unreadable, now perks up at this. He smiles, warm and genuine, and when his gaze shifts, reflecting firelight, his eyes seem to sparkle with mischief.

"Oh, but I _like it_ when you misbehave."

Hearing all this, the bartender winces, likely in self-chastisement — or so Galen judges based upon the man's next words.

"Ah, begging your pardon, my lord. I should not have made an assumption about a guest and their sleeping arrangements."

"Don't worry about it." 

Nine out ten times, no doubt, the man would have been right. And no matter what it seems, Galen doesn't take pleasure in correcting him. Most of all, he wanted to signal to Dorian that what they are to each other isn't something he ever intends to hide.

And Dorian does seem to appreciate it. His smile lingers all the way up the stairs as they follow a serving girl who leads them to their room. She bids them to wait with the door open until she returns. When she does, she's carrying a cot — a simple wooden frame with a hide stretched tightly across it. As she unfolds it in the room, another young person follows behind her to deliver the second.

"There you are, my lord," she says. "Enjoy your stay. Call on us if you need anything."

Galen thanks her as she takes her leave. He starts to shut the door behind her when Cassandra catches hold of it and stops him.

"I'm going downstairs to eat and talk to the locals," she says. "I'll be back in an hour. Make use of your time however you like, but don't you dare let me walk in on anything I don't wish to see."

Galen's too slow to answer, still trying to make sense of what Cassandra's suggesting. Dorian, on the other hand, speaks up right away.

"Care to specify, please?" he asks. "How is anyone to know what you do or don't wish to–"

"Enough!" Cassandra says. "One hour."

She holds up her index finger, probably to emphasize the amount of time that she's giving them to indulge in each other. Instead it looks like a warning meant mostly for Dorian. She glares at him a moment longer before she leaves, shutting the door behind her. 

Once she's gone, Dorian grins as he turns towards Galen and steps forward into an embrace. 

"Amatus," he says, "I have you all to myself again. For a little while, at least."

"I've missed you," Galen says, aware that he's probably being ridiculous and overly sentimental. They've been traveling together for days.

"I haven't gone far." Dorian sniffs, and then wrinkles his nose. "But you smell awful. Ugh, and so do I. Gurgut and horse."

He breaks away and crosses the room, heading for a shelf away from the window. On top rests a small metal basin filled with water for washing up. Dorian peers down at it, inspecting carefully. 

"It looks clean, at least," he says, "but around here who can tell?" 

He touches the surface, gently so as not to break the surface tension, and channels a fire spell strong enough to heat it to boiling. He pulls his hand away, and for a moment he watches the steam rise. Then he casts a cold spell, chilling it back down to a reasonable warmth for bathing.

"Poor substitute for a bath," he says. "Best we've got, I suppose."

And he's right, Galen thinks. Soaking together in the heat of a bath back at Skyhold does sound more appealing than this. And yet once they get started, there's an intimacy to be found in stripping down, hanging their clothes to air them out, and then attacking each other — albeit gently — with wash cloths.

"I think that's dragon's blood on your thigh," Dorian says, and his brow furrows as he wipes it away. "How did you manage that? Did you slay it with your breeches off and I didn't notice?"

"They're torn," Galen says. "Snagged on a branch or something. Good thing we'll be in Val Royeaux in a couple of days."

"Oh, shopping," Dorian says, smiling with delighted anticipation. "Yes, let's do that."

"We can once Vivienne has her potion," Galen says. "Plenty of time for it. It'll be a few days before the others catch up." 

And that's something to look forward to. Personally, he doesn't have strong feelings for shopping either way. It's nice to have clothes made to fit well and look good, but standing around for a tailor can be terribly boring — though probably a lot less so with Dorian involved, chatting away and enjoying himself the whole time. And that's the part Galen looks forward to — the part where Dorian is reveling in the experience, so much that his thrilled exuberance rubs off on everyone around him.

"Shopping, then," Dorian says. "I consider it a promise and I will hold you to it."

"Fair enough."

As they talk, they stand close together, fully naked. They each take turns dipping their wash cloth into the basin to thoroughly wet their skin. To clean, they use a small, lightly-scented square of soap, which Dorian took from among his own things — rather than let either of them use the yellowed crust of whatever soap the inn could last afford. And then they rinse it all away with wash cloths once again. The floor gets wet, but not _too_ much.

"There's a certain rustic charm in this, I'll admit," Dorian says. [skip]

He's looking down, fascinated and becoming aroused as Galen very gently takes hold of him to wash between his legs. After that, kissing and caressing becomes part of the bath — and to Galen it feels just as vital as the soap and water. The cleaner they get, the more their arousal escalates, until they're stroking each other — separately at first and then rubbing themselves together.

"Water's no good for this," Galen whispers.

"No, it isn't," Dorian agrees.

Still damp from bathing, they fall back to the bed. Dorian — so perfect and brilliant of him — has acquired a little bottle of oil, taken from the same leather pouch as the soap. He pours some into both of their hands and then it doesn't take long for either of them. Galen sits across Dorian's thighs, straddling him to press their cocks together and stroke them both as the tightness builds and builds.

Release comes quick and messy. 

It sends them back to the wash basin, but this time with a better chance of focusing solely on the task of cleaning. 

"Feeling better now?" Dorian asks him a short while later when they're both dressed in their relatively clean spare underlayers — light tunics and breeches. 

And Galen does feel better. He's more relaxed than before and the comfortable intimacy between them feels almost fully restored. _Almost_. Before they put on more clothes and go downstairs to have a meal in the tavern, Galen wants to get the rest of this weight off his shoulders. So he broaches the topic he's been thinking about since they set out from Skyhold eight days ago.

"Dorian, will you tell me if I ever start to bother you?"

"You bother me all the time," Dorian says, playfully, and with a hint of innuendo.

He's such a perfect brat sometimes that Galen can't help but feel the urge to wrestle him into submission — though it's usually a coin toss as to which one of them wins. Galen's a bit stronger, and Dorian's got slightly better moves. That always keeps things interesting. Tonight though, he staves off the urge to pin Dorian down and forces himself instead to use his words.

"I'm serious. If it's too much. If I get overbearing or something..."

He stops talking when Dorian, looking surprised to hear all this, shakes his head and says, "Is that why you've been distant? I wondered."

"Well, _you_ were distant on the day we left. It seemed like you needed some time to yourself. So I backed off."

"I don't know," Dorian says. He looks thoughtful as he considers it. "Those first few days on the road I _did_ have a lot on my mind. Regarding Alexius mostly. I hadn't spoken to him since Redcliffe. I'd been meaning to go see him, but also dreading it. I kept putting it off. But then all of a sudden Leliana needed me to talk to him. It was... difficult."

Galen nods.

"But that was a day or two of my sullenness at most," Dorian adds. "And you haven't talked to me much since we left. I didn't know what to make of it."

"I just don't want to be–"

"Overbearing, yes, I got that part." Dorian sighs. "Next time, do talk to me, please. Contrary to half the rumors I hear about myself every day, I can't actually read your mind."

"I will. I promise."

"Good. Because until about an hour ago, I was terribly annoyed with you for ignoring me. But then you chastised that man downstairs for making assumptions about who would be sleeping with whom — and that– well, it warmed my bitter little heart."

"The frozen one in your bag, you mean?" 

Galen glances over at the satchel, hanging up on a hook near the door, with the ice cold wyvern heart within.

That earns him a joyful laugh from Dorian.

"Hah! Yes, but let's not actually melt that one or all of this rushing about will have been pointless."

"I certainly hope it's worth it," Galen says. "Maker only knows what Vivienne's going to use it for."

* * *

Moments later, when Cassandra returns, they're both still lounging on the bed together, talking and laughing and dressed in their matching white tunics. She takes one look at the two of them and shakes her head.

"For a pair of incredibly dangerous mages who strike fear into the hearts of our enemies," she says, "you're ridiculously adorable."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complexity and misgivings don't end just because you've declared your love for someone. And yes, there really is an urn in the elven burial grounds at the Exalted Plains with that text on it. No desecration required to read it. At first I thought it might fill in your player character's name. But no. It didn't change when I switched characters. It's always little Galen.


	28. Val Royeaux (Death & Downtime)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duke Bastien is dead. A shopping trip happens. Cassandra gets drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for excess drinking and morbid humor. Also, the third scene is entirely silly. And I'm situating the Ghislain estate in or very near Val Royeaux.

**Val Royeaux, Day 205**

Vivienne stands by the sitting room window and gazes out at the manicured lawns of the Ghislain estate. She holds an empty potion bottle in her hand and she listens without even glancing at Galen beside her. He offers condolences in the stilted, awkward way that everyone does when someone who's a stranger to them has died. 

"I'm sorry for your loss." 

She thanks him, politely, and explains that she has so much to do — letters to write, Chantry services to plan, a whole host of tasks to mark the death of Duke Bastien de Ghislain, leader of the Council of Heralds.

"And I'm sorry about the potion," he says.

Babysitting the frozen gurgut heart was more trouble than killing the creature itself. He genuinely had hoped the potion she used it for would do its job.

"The attempt was what mattered." Vivienne's voice sounds tired and thin.

He tries to imagine the world from her perspective. It has to be lonely for her, living at Skyhold away from court, hoping to rebuild the stability she lost when the Circles disbanded and the mages rebelled. To her, the Inquisition must feel chaotic, scattered in its priorities, and led by a man who doesn't know what he's doing beyond throwing himself heedlessly at Fade rifts. And now she's lost her lover of many years — an influential man whose wealth and position opened many doors for a determined and talented woman like herself.

"You could always come with us," Galen says. "Leave all this behind to take care of itself for a while."

He knows she won't join them on their next journey, but it feels as though he ought to offer.

"Nothing takes care of itself," she says. "My dear, you should know that by now."

"I know," he says. "Wishful thinking on my part."

He isn't simply being polite. He really would like to steal her away from all this. If he can get her out in the field on more missions, he thinks perhaps he can get to know her better. He's getting tired of the 'my dears' and 'my darlings' — but he thinks he wouldn't mind them so much if they served as a mark of friendship rather than a symptom of the political niceties required of her station.

But he won't press the issue, certainly not _now_ , mere minutes after the death of her duke.

And maybe not ever. It's like what Bull told him about Commander Helaine. _She doesn't owe you her opinions._ Though, when it comes to Vivienne, her opinions are always quite clear. Instead, it's her truths and her feelings that she keeps to herself.

* * *

**Val Royeaux, Day 206**

Galen does have to make purchases in Val Royeaux. That was part of the plan all along. A good three-fourths of the items he needs are for Skyhold. The Inquisition has a long shopping list and it includes such things as woven tapestries, bolts of fine cloth, wines and cheeses, as well as cups and bowls to replace what's been smashed to pieces on the tavern floor.

The remaining purchases are gear and supplies for the inner circle's westward journey. This isn't supposed to include indulging Dorian's every whim at the tailor's — as Dorian himself is well aware.

"So, what's the sartorial budget for me personally?" he asks as they stand outside the shop.

"Order whatever you like," Galen says.

Dorian chuckles as he shakes his head. He's rueful, dismissive. 

"As lovely as that sounds, no," he says. "We're not doing that."

"Is this another 'I don't want to be indebted to you' conversation? Because I thought we were past all that."

It's not even a question. Galen knows for certain they're past it, because they've talked about debts and favors, about the feeling of owing someone a great debt even when they tell you it doesn't matter. They first hashed it out three days after they'd started sleeping together, in the recent aftermath of the amulet acquisition.

"I'm never going to give you things and then hold it over you as something you owe me for."

It's an easy promise to make and to keep, because it aligns so well with his nature. Galen's never been one to keep score. Part of that is because he simply forgets. It's far too tiresome to keep track of birthdays and special occasions and the names of all the people who've ever given you something in order to somehow return the favor — as if that were even possible. As if the free, generous, and loving impulse to give could somehow be captured and scripted and given meaning within an economy of expected exchange.

Besides, what he's offering right now isn't even a gift. Not really.

The Inquisition is supposed to outfit its people. Everyone who isn't being paid a salary is compensated instead with food and shelter, supplies and clothing. Galen himself isn't paid, though he is put in charge of a considerable stipend for purchases that need to be made while out on Inquisition business. That includes access to funds for discretionary purchases. And today, he'd really like to spend a good portion of those funds on Dorian.

"I know _you_ don't see it as a debt," Dorian says. "But I _am_ still concerned about what other people will think of you if you indulge me too much."

"So buy one outfit, not half a dozen."

"Back to the question we started with, then. What exactly is the budget for this?" Dorian asks.

"Whatever it costs," Galen says.

"No, I don't think so."

Galen sighs and gives him a number. It's probably more generous than Dorian expected, but certainly less than he could spend if he really put his mind to it.

"Was that really so hard?" he asks.

"I just want you to enjoy yourself," Galen says. "Get fitted for something nice. Criticize half the fabric choices. Flirt with the tailor's assistant if you like. I don't know, have fun with it."

"Flirt with the assistant, he says." Dorian laughs. "For someone as possessive as you are, you certainly don't get jealous easily."

"Why would I?"

"Such confidence. Alright, have it your way. I'll flirt with all the fabrics, criticize all the assistants, and try to find something that doesn't make me look like an Orlesian civil servant." 

With that said, Dorian heads for the door, but as he opens it, he stops for a moment and turns toward Galen. His smile is joyful, irreverent, and genuine.

"After all," he adds, "I can't be expected to kill Venatori properly if they're laughing at my outfit." 

"No, that wouldn't do at all."

Galen really doesn't care about the clothes. But he is looking forward to trailing behind for once — standing back to let Dorian take the lead and soak up all the attention. That, he thinks, might be a good look for both of them.

* * *

**Val Royeaux, Day 207**

It could be that Cassandra's in a sociable mood. Or perhaps she's lonely, having spent too many days and nights alone in the city as they for wait for the rest of their group to catch up with them. Either way, she seems to want some friendly companionship this evening. Or so Galen presumes when she shows up at the door with a bottle of wine.

"Oh, we'll need more than that," Dorian says as Galen lets her in.

Four or five bottles later — who can recall? —all three of them are sprawled across the same wide, soft, canopied bed in the rented room that Galen and Dorian have been sharing. There's a plate of delicate cheeses and little candied nuts on the bed with them and Galen pushes it further away from him. He's not hungry anymore, but he keeps eating anyway. 

Meanwhile, Dorian is trying to play matchmaker on Cassandra's behalf.

"What about Varric?" he asks. "You like his books. There seems to be a spark of something or other between the two of you."

"Frequent rage?" Cassandra says. "Is that the spark you mean?"

Galen laughs and considers telling her about the secret deal he's made with Varric. The dwarf is forging ahead, composing the next chapter of his terrible romance, _Swords and Shields_ , in exchange for the joy of being there to see the look on Cassandra's face when Galen hands it over. 

But he doesn't want to spoil the surprise. So he tries to play along with the whole matchmaker thing.

"What about my cousin Alec?" Galen asks. "You could recruit him to join your new Seekers when all this is over. Get him off the lyrium, the same as Cullen."

"I don't even know him," she says.

"That's the point. You could get to know him," Galen says. "Besides, he always claims he's good in bed."

He's not sure if that's the selling point that Cassandra's looking for, but it only seems fair to mention it. 

"Hah!" Dorian cries out with a sharp, triumphant laugh and then manuevers himself until he's almost sitting up, leaning on one elbow as he looks down at both Galen and Cassandra. 

"Speaking of cousins being good in bed," he says to Galen, "that reminds me. Did you know that you and I are distant cousins?"

"No! Shut up, we're not," Galen says. 

He reaches for another candied walnut and pops it into his mouth. He chews it aggressively and swallows, glaring at Dorian the entire time. 

"Very distant, don't fret," Dorian says, grinning happily down at him. "It can't count as incest if you have to comb through eight centuries of civil records to find your common ancestor."

"Did you know this all along and you're only just now telling me?"

"No," Dorian says. "I had a suspicion. I did some reading to confirm it." He shrugs. "I bet everyone you've ever fucked back at Ostwick was a closer distant relative of yours than I am."

While that isn't exactly a comforting thought, the eight centuries of distance does appease him a little. And yet in his somewhat hazy, intoxicated state, Galen still wants to gripe and complain a bit more.

"Don't say 'fucked,' you're making Cassandra uncomfortable."

He doesn't know if that's true. She _does_ tend to favor euphemisms instead of the cruder words one might use for sex. Still, the entire point is to chastise Dorian.

"I am not uncomfortable," Cassandra says. "This bed is very soft and I like the wine."

She burps and then giggles. It occurs to Galen that he might not be the drunkest one here. 

"What about Commander Cullen," Dorian suggests, changing the subject back to Cassandra's currently non-existent love life. "Now there's a man who needs to get laid."

Galen nods in agreement as he reaches for the food again, selects a cheese cube, and then chews it quietly and politely with his mouth shut. He's drunk — yes, of course — but he still has _manners_.

"No." Cassandra answers without a moment's hesitation. "Cullen is my friend. Only that. Besides, he would get on my nerves too much."

"That's a common theme here," Dorian says, "people getting on your nerves. What about the Iron Bull? He flirts with you."

"No. I don't want to 'ride the Bull,' thank you for asking. I've told him the same." She laughs, snorting a little as she remembers something else. "I _have_ seen him completely nude, however."

"Have you?" Dorian asks. "Oh, do tell."

"Hardly surprising, I'm sure," she says, "but he is very large everywhere."

At this, Dorian laughs out loud.

"I meant 'do tell' the _context_ , not the size of his– hah!"

Galen starts to reach above his head for the food again, but then changes his mind. Instead of selecting another cheese, he nudges the tray even further away from him. Dorian notices all this — his strange little war of willpower with the nuts and cheeses — and makes a baffled face, shaking his head as if to say 'what in the world are you doing?'

Galen shrugs and makes a dismissive gesture at the tray above him. 

Wordlessly, Dorian points to the tray, then glances at the bedside table and back. Galen cranes his neck to look and then nods as best he can to indicate that, yes, moving the food over there would be lovely. As Dorian lifts the tray and removes it, Galen grins up at him fondly. He's ridiculously delighted that they've just communicated effectively using gestures and glances and eyerolls alone. It feels like an important couples milestone.

Meanwhile, Cassandra is describing the afternoon of the incident and how mortifying it was when she, Cullen, and Josephine all walked in on the Iron Bull while he was enjoying some personal time with one of his young lady companions.

"Good for him," Galen says. "He deserves to relax and have a good time after all the exile he's been through lately."

"Well, he's finding plenty of relaxing good times, I think," Cassandra says.

"Blackwall, then? Solas?" Dorian asks, continuing dutifully down the list of eligible men in the Inquisition's inner circle.

But Cassandra's repeated answer is 'no.' She adores the idea of a romance, she says, but wishing for the right man won't make him magically stumble out of the Fade and into her arms. 

"We can't all be so lucky," she says, glancing meaningfully at Dorian.

"Point taken." 

He stops suggesting suitors and instead steers the conversation towards grislier topics. Before long all three of them are competing to see who can come up with the best and worst ways to die. Dorian suggests drowning as a bad way. Galen agrees, but only because it's an instance in which all breathing ceases. Anything that cuts off the breath seems the worst to him.

"No," Cassandra says. "I think being consumed alive by a wild animal would be the worst way."

Galen turns his head to look at her. She's smiling pleasantly — as though she hasn't just suggested one of the ghastliest deaths possible.

"That's really horrific," he says, chuckling darkly at the thought. "You might win with that one." 

But then he thinks it over for a second, imagining the sort of creatures that might end up killing him someday.

"But not if it's a dragon," he says. "That's just one big chomp and then you're done. It's over so quickly — like being crushed by a falling rock or something."

"That's a fair point," Dorian agrees.

"All the good ways are quick," Galen says.

"Or else painless," Dorian says. "Certain poisons. Slow, but you don't suffer."

"Unless," Galen says — agreeing but with one important caveat — "unless you know you've been poisoned and you can't do anything to reverse it. Then it becomes its own kind of suffering. That's why I like quick."

"But have you considered?" Dorian says. "Quick _and_ painless."

"Chasing the dream with that one," Galen says.

He looks up at Dorian, who winks at him and smiles. This morbid conversation should _not_ feel comforting, and yet it does. It's good, for once, to acknowledge what they all carry with them — the fear of a painful and pointless death. 

"Quick, painless, and to serve a good purpose," Cassandra says, as if reading Galen's mind, "that would be the best death, I think." Then she adds, "Oh, but I should probably go back to my room. We leave tomorrow. I'm sure you two would appreciate some special time together."

Dorian laughs. "Cassandra, these euphemisms are destroying me. Slowly and painfully. They are _actually_ the worst way to die."

"Fine. I will go now so that the two of you can have sex. Is that better?"

"No," Galen says, sighing with a knowing weariness as he gazes up at the canopy, "nobody can get it up, we're all too drunk."

"This is true," Dorian says. "See? You might as well fall asleep here with the rest of the fully-clothed inebriates."

"No special good times for anyone, I'm afraid." 

Thanks to the wine, Galen's words are funnier than they ought to be. 

Once all the drunken snorts and giggles have faded, Cassandra's expression goes grim. She points her finger first at Galen, then at Dorian.

"We are never speaking of this evening again." 

"Oh?" Dorian says. "You mean your night of scandal after which you woke up hungover and in bed with two men?"

The glare she gives him is enough on its own to make him relent.

"Fine, yes, as you like. Not a word to anyone."

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Notes from the Field, Outskirts of Val Royeaux

_The respite is over and we're back on the road. Two weeks of travel ahead of us before we reach Hawke and Loghain and try to figure what's going on out there with the Wardens, the Venatori, and the Red Templars alike._

_In the war room back at Skyhold, Cullen said he'd have soldiers ready should we need them. All we have to do is send word._

_I hope we won't have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to anyone who's actually reading and enjoying this self indulgent fic of mine. I'm having so much fun writing it and it's been a good exercise in getting words on the page while letting go of the desire to be perfect at writing. As with everything I've written, concrit is always fine — it hasn't ever bothered me so far, so have at it if that's what you need to do — just know I'm really not too concerned about everything being perfect with this one. It's my 2020 shippy fic that doesn't take itself too seriously.


	29. Road to the Western Approach, 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galen discovers that someone else has written notes in his journal. That someone is Dorian.

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Field notes, undated 

_Hello Trevelyan,_

_First things first. Relax please. Deep breath in, deep breath out. All that._

_Much better, yes?_

_Good._

_I promise I haven't read any of your "field notes" or whatever silly, masculine thing you prefer to call this little diary of yours. No, instead all I've done is open it to a blank future page to write you a note._

_Why, you ask?_

_Well, I think it should be obvious, but perhaps not. It's simple, really. I want to tell you some things, and I don't want you to read them right away._

_So, here goes:_

_These past few days with you have been indescribably wonderful. I do mean this earnestly. And I'm not only talking about the sex — which you are very good at, by the way. (Congratulations on that.)_

_I've said that I like you and I mean it, of course, but that's not even the half of it. I like you more than I know what to do with. And the fact that it seems to be mutual — well, that still doesn't seem quite real._

_So if, by the time you're reading this, I've done something foolhardy to ruin whatever's between us, I want you to give me another chance. This is all going to be so new for me — I'm fairly certain I'll smash it to bits and be very sorry about that, but I won't have any idea at all how to make it up to you. So, keep that in mind. If I have ruined it, I'll probably want very desperately to unruin it, but I won't know how to tell you so._

_So maybe you come find me? And we try to work it out? I'm sure I'd want that._

_—Dorian_

* * *

_Hmm, you still haven't found this, have you? I thought you would have by now._

_No matter._

_Do forgive the melodrama. I was feeling rather anxious about everything at the start. But now here we are, nearly three months later, and I still haven't ruined anything. Fantastic, isn't it? I'm not often this pleased to be wrong._

* * *

_I suppose I'll just have to keep adding secret little notes here now that I've started._

_It's surprising. I've fallen in love with other men before, you know? But it's never been reciprocal before, and certainly not something I've ever been so free to imagine and indulge and enjoy._

_I can see it in little ways. I'm a different person now because of you. Well, because of us. Not different in a bad way. Trust me, I don't mean that. More like a "living up to one's potential" sort of way — which, ugh, sounds so dreadfully boring and responsible, ~~like something my father would say.~~ (But no, I'm crossing that out. He doesn't get to be part of this, not even in a fleeting reference.)_

_The point is, I love you, Trevelyan. And while it's not all thanks to you — do keep that ego in check, you smug bastard — it **is** true that I like who I am right now. In fact, I like myself more now than I ever have. And some of that is your doing. _

_Thanks for that. It's not so bad._

_—Dorian_

* * *

_Dorian, I love you, too. More than I can put into words. I know we've only just started, but I do feel so deeply that you're the great love of my life. And loving you has changed me as well — very much for the better._

_But this is not a diary. I don't write in it daily, so therefore, by definition, it can't be one. Masculinity has nothing to do with it._

_Yours, Galen_

* * *

_Hah! It's a diary!_

_—Dorian_

* * *

**En route to the Western Approach, Day 210**

Galen smiles to himself as he shuts his leather-bound journal. He first found Dorian's notes a couple of days ago, written ahead of his own recent entries by the space of a dozen blank pages. So of course he wrote a note in return. And now Dorian has replied to that, as well — teasing him, always teasing him.

It's true, a diary _is_ the sort of thing that feels vaguely feminine when he thinks about it, but Galen's sure that can't be why he avoids the term. At least, he _thinks_ he's sure. 

He'll probably end up talking to Dorian about it later — back at Skyhold, most likely, with a bottle of brandy shared between them. They've returned on several occasions to the quiet mages' library near the kitchens. There, they've sat and hashed out many a serious topic — politics, hierarchy, oppression, the dangers of magic, and all the weird things that Solas has told them about spirits and the Fade — topics that Galen can't ever seem to figure out properly when he thinks about them on his own. 

He'll have to add masculinity to the list. It should give them plenty to talk about. He's curious about the differing pressures and expectations that they both grew up with as mages and young men. While Galen likes to think that he's a person who's true to himself no matter what, fitting in with a group always does seem to require an awareness of other people's perceptions and, quite often, a willingness to conform. Dorian's different in that regard. He pushes back against the current, sooner and harder than Galen typically would.

It's one of those brave little qualities that makes him so brilliant and so admirable.

_I'll have to tell him so_ , Galen thinks.

The more intimate they've become, the more he can see the web of insecurities that Dorian's always battling to get free from. Though Dorian often deflects praise with preemptive gloating, he does still hunger deeply for the genuine recognition of his talents and his worth.

_I can always give him that._

It's true. They both have so much to give each other. And sometimes the smallest things become the most important gifts. Like when Dorian teases him. It's often just what Galen needs — the gentle pleasure of a teasing conversation in which he can feel like a normal person again, and not some mythic figure bound for the history books.

He smiles again, thinking about a different book entirely — the worn little journal he still holds in hand. He opens it to write one more note in reply to Dorian, and when he's done he tucks the book away in his pocket. Dorian will find it there later, no doubt, and steal it back again in an attempt to get the last word in.

* * *

**Papers of Galen Trevelyan**  
Field notes, undated 

_My dear Dorian,_

_This made me laugh. And then it made me want to have one of our long, serious, engaging conversations — this time about masculinity and all the pressures and expectations thereof._

_Have I told you lately that you're my favorite person?_

_No?_

_Well, you are. And all of this is why._

_(Also, the sex.)_

_—Galen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a break from writing for a while. I needed the rest, but now I'm back, easing my way in with a short chapter.


	30. Road to the Western Approach, 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian complains about the desert. Blackwall complains about Dorian.

**En route to the Western Approach, Day 212**

Day by day, the countryside changes. The trees along the road grow sparse and the waist-high grasses that covered the plains now thin out into patches, clustered around springs and rivers. After five days on the road, the red sands blow in — a brightly-colored layer of grit that dusts their boots and breeches. And the further west they go, the redder everything gets, until the whole landscape is a shifting palette of dull pink and burnt orange.

"It's really beautiful out here," Galen says one evening as they all sit by the campfire. 

Even the air is good — dry and fragrant with juniper. Combined with the woodsmoke, it smells like a mild, pleasant incense. 

They're getting close to the rendezvous point where Harding and her team of scouts will have set up camp. Another two day's ride, at most, and they'll be there. But he wants to hang onto this — these days of peaceful camaraderie, camping under the stars, eating freshly-roasted meats, and sitting close to the fire to ward off the unexpected chill of the desert night. 

"There's an awful lot of sand," Dorian says. 

He sits beside Galen, relaxing with his legs crossed at the ankles and stretched out towards the fire. It burns hot enough this evening that even Dorian has thrown off his cloak.

"Sand for miles," he adds, sounding weary and distressed by the thought of it. "And not much else, I'm afraid."

He complains about their surroundings fairly often for someone who doesn't actually want to be elsewhere. (Galen's asked several times if he'd ever prefer to stay at Skyhold. Dorian's most recent answer was teasing, morbid, and yet somehow still reassuring — "What!? And let you slaughter everyone without me? We can't have that!")

Varric joins in with a similar gripe of his own.

"Yeah, this desert stuff is not my favorite. The sooner we find Hawke and get out of here, the better."

"You see? There it is," Dorian says, looking at Galen as he gestures towards Varric. "A sensible opinion! Now let's find a few of those for _you_."

"You'd get tired of me if all I had to offer were sensible opinions," Galen says. "Besides, it's not like I want to live here. I just like the view."

He lets his gaze linger along the graceful lines of Dorian's neck, where beads of sweat have started forming, drawn forth by the heat of the fire. 

"You aren't subtle," Dorian says. "At all." 

But he smiles, pleased to be ogled. 

In response, Galen reaches out and places his hand beside Dorian's. His palm presses into the warmth of the packed sand, pleasantly dry to the touch. A moment later, Dorian adjusts the angle of his wrist and moves his fingers just enough for his pinky and ring finger to interlace with Galen's own. It's the slightest touch, and yet there's something undeniably intimate about it. 

Meanwhile, the boisterous chatter of their companions continues unabated. Bull teases Sera, who turns the joke around on him, much to Blackwall's amusement. Varric laughs at something Cole says to Solas, and then Cassandra glowers at both the mage and the spirit alike until Varric distracts her with a comment or question. It must be something to spark her interest, because her reply is accompanied by animated hand gestures. Galen can only catch bits and pieces, but it sounds like she's talking about her uncle again — or else another eccentric member of the Pentaghast family.

And then, for one crystal clear moment, Sera's voice rises above the rest as she argues with Bull and Blackwall.

"You mix them in a bottle and they're just what you throw. Tonics and grenades are _not_ magic!"

"Ah–" Jumping in, Dorian speaks up to resolve the inaccuracy. "Well, technically speaking–"

He moves his hand away — much to Galen's regret — and holds it up and forward, his index finger raised to make his point. But he doesn't get the chance to finish. 

"Shut it, Jousty Sparkles," — Sera glares at him as she interrupts — "no one's asking _you_."

Dorian sighs, but lets it go.

"Fine, yes. Enjoy your ignorance. As always."

She doesn't hear him. She's already laughing again and turning towards Bull, who's busy making fun of her aim.

"Hey," he says, "at least the guys throwing actual magic left and right aren't hitting me with it by accident. Unlike you and those flasks."

"Your fault for standing where you shouldn't," she says as she punches his shoulder.

"Hey now!" Bull rubs the spot where her fist made contact, but he's grinning. "Nice one."

As their playful banter continues, Galen again looks over to Dorian. 

"New nickname?" he asks.

"Oh, I hope not," Dorian says, sounding genuinely wearied by the idea. 

Varric's usually the one who bestows them, not Sera. She doesn't typically refer to Dorian by anything other than his name, or occasionally, a friendly "hey, you." Jousty Sparkles is new and different.

"Care to explain?" Galen asks.

"Yes, but not at the moment," Dorian says. "I'll tell you later. You'll laugh."

His gaze drifts down and then up again as he gives Galen a lazy once-over. 

"You know, I've been thinking," he says. "I'll have to show you Minrathous someday." 

He speaks softly enough that the others don't hear him. Or if they do, they aren't paying any attention. Their conversation has moved on to speculation about the Hero of Ferelden and her whereabouts. Their voices rise and fall in the background, punctuated now and then by laughter.

Galen keeps his eyes on Dorian, who looks uncertain but hopeful. They don't ever talk in specifics about the future, neither of them daring to speculate about what might come next for them beyond Corypheus. And so even a casual offer to go sightseeing in Tevinter feels significant. It's an admission of hope, evidence that Dorian, too, has imagined a world in which they're both still alive and traveling the world together.

"I'd like that," Galen says.

Dorian's quiet for a moment. The tension in his expression disappears as relief washes over him. 

"Of course you would," he says, tucking all that vulnerability away again as he falls back to his more typical disposition — charming, witty, and brash. "If you're this easily impressed by a landscape of absolutely nothing, I can only imagine how you'd marvel at an actual city."

"Oh? An actual city," Galen says. "Are we not counting Val Royeaux for some reason?"

He holds eye contact as he awaits a reply. He's never sure what sort of answer Dorian will come up with, but it's usually something clever that sounds disparaging and feels the opposite.

"I never count Orlesian cities," Dorian says. "I do have standards, after all — though our recent trip was surprisingly tolerable. I suppose that's what happens when I spend all day in bed with someone beautiful and interesting. Fewer opportunities to be insulted in public by rude Orlesians wearing masks."

"Beautiful and interesting?" Galen asks, feigning surprise. "Who were you in bed with, then?"

Dorian laughs. 

"Oh, he's got moves, let me tell you." 

Then he offers up one of the gentlest, most loving smiles in his repertoire. It only lasts for a second before it turns completely mischievous. 

"And it's serious with this one, I'm sure of it." He reaches out and trails his fingers along the draping folds of Galen's scarf. "Because green scarves are over and done with — _very_ last season — and he's still wearing one, but I can't even fault him. I think he looks _fantastic_."

"So much for having standards," Galen says. 

Dorian shakes his head as though he can scarcely believe it himself.

"It's true," he says. "They've gone right out the window."

He smiles, and the look in his eyes is relaxed, almost dreamy, as though all of this teasing was just what he needed — a welcome distraction from his complaints about the desert.

* * *

Galen startles awake. The camp is still dark and quiet. It's the dead of night and Blackwall kneels beside him, shaking him gently. 

"Nothing's wrong," he says. "But I thought you should see this."

Galen gets up, careful not to wake Dorian, who sleeps beside him. He dresses as quickly as he can — without the protective warmth of the blankets, the air is cold against his skin and underlayers — and then he follows Blackwall to the edge of their small encampment. 

"Look," the warden says, and points towards the horizon where a telltale glow lights up the darkness around it.

"Rift," Galen says. "But it's farther away than it looks."

He flexes his left hand. It feels normal and unremarkable, without the prickle of firing nerves to suggest a Fade rift nearby.

"As I suspected," Blackwall says. "Can't do much till we set out tomorrow, then. Still, I thought you'd want to see it."

Galen nods. 

"I'll keep an eye on it for a while," he says, though there's probably no need for it.

The vast majority of rifts are small and straightforward. They won't grow larger or more threatening. Demons will cross through, of course, but out here in the empty wilderness those demons can be tracked down and destroyed without too much effort. They're drawn to the presence of people — and mages especially — so Galen and his companions shouldn't have any trouble finding them tomorrow.

No, he probably doesn't need to sit here, perched on a rock at the camp's edge, and scanning the horizon for signs of movement near the rift. But he's fully awake now and he doesn't think he'd fall asleep easily if he tried. 

Blackwall paces nearby, keeping watch and staying alert for threats from every direction. His guard shift will last for at least another hour, and then Cassandra will relieve him just before dawn. Galen keeps quiet. He's never sure what to say to the warden, nor how to sustain a conversation for more than a minute or two. Perhaps it's enough to share the late shift and hope for some limited sense of camaraderie to emerge despite the silence.

Unexpectedly, it's Blackwall who strikes up a conversation. And it's clear from his question that he's had a particular topic in mind, perhaps for a while now.

"Honest question," he says, glancing over to where Dorian lies sleeping. "Does it bother you that I don't like him?" 

Galen answers without needing to think it over.

"No, not really."

It's true, he prefers it when everyone gets along. He likes when people don't needlessly antagonize each other and when conflicts are worked out with maturity and good faith. But that isn't always possible. Some people just don't like each other. 

"Even though he's your–" Blackwall frowns, seems momentarily at a loss for words. "–well, whatever-he-is?"

Lover. Partner. Boyfriend. There are an abundance of words to choose from. Vivienne opts for paramour. Cassandra has called him 'your friend and your love.' That one felt good and entirely accurate. The term that feels best is Dorian's own, _amatus_. But it's in Tevene and so Galen wouldn't presume to use it.

Though, now that he thinks about it, there could be circumstances in which Dorian would like to hear it. After all, wouldn't he have longed for it — this important word that an altus would never say to another man? Wouldn't it give him relief and pleasure to hear it whispered to him, perhaps in the comforting darkness of the bedroom? It's worth asking and finding out.

"Inquisitor?" 

Blackwall's voice startles him from the relaxing drift of his private thoughts about Dorian. It's jarring to look up suddenly and meet the warden's gaze, intense and unknowable as he waits for some reply.

"Look," Galen says, starting to talk without fully knowing where he's going to end up. "We're all here because we chose to be."

He glances down at his hand. The Fade anchor is pale and dormant. It hasn't flared up in days, not since the last time they passed near an active rift. He closed it — of course he did. He owes it to every person in Thedas to close as many rifts as he can. But if not for this unasked-for power, he doubts he would have joined the Inquisition. He would have found it just as audacious and presumptuous as its critics claim it to be.

"Maybe we actually _were_ chosen by the Maker. Who can say?"

"Don't know," Blackwall says. "What are you getting at?"

"Well," Galen says, "we're here for a shared purpose. And so I think we have a duty to each other." 

That seems like a good tactic — wardens are all about duty and responsibility. Appealing to that part of Blackwall's training might help them find some common ground.

"We keep each other safe and alive, no matter what," he says. "Beyond that, I like to think we owe each other a basic level of consideration and decency."

He's well aware that Dorian has, on multiple occasions, violated this principle of respect and decency by referring to Blackwall as 'that hairy lummox' — and far worse. But Galen's thinking aspirationally, not chronicling what actually happens. And besides, Blackwall's been known to hurl his share of insults in return.

Right now, the warden simply nods. "Sounds reasonable."

"Good," Galen says. "Because that's all I'm asking. Whatever you think about Dorian, that's your own business. You don't owe it to me — or anyone — to try and be friends with someone you clearly don't like."

He realizes, now that he's spoken, that a good leader probably would have taken more initiative to mediate conflicts among his followers. But Galen doesn't have the will or the interest to get involved like that. At best it's a weakness — at worst, a personal failing. Or maybe he's right, and it _is_ better for everyone to work through these things on their own? He's not really sure, but Josephine might have some insight. He makes a mental note to ask her.

"The incessant chatter, though?" Blackwall speaks up again — still clearly fixated on Dorian. "The ridiculous preening? That doesn't ever get to you?"

Galen glances over to where he stands. Lit only by starlight, he looks stoic and rugged despite his complaining. 

"Well," Galen says, "I'd say those things aren't flaws."

"How do you figure?" Blackwall sounds unconvinced.

"I'd say he keeps up a conversation. And he has high standards of personal grooming, which I always appreciate in someone I go to bed with."

"Maker's breath! I don't need the details."

Galen laughs, genuinely amused. " _That_ wasn't detailed."

"Fine. Let's talk about something else."

Galen nods. Then without much forethought, he asks one of the questions that's been increasingly on his mind. 

"How worried are you about the wardens? I mean, is the Calling getting worse?"

Blackwall shakes his head. "Not one for cheery topics, are you?"

"You don't like my cheery topics."

"Sullen silence, then?" Blackwall asks, but at last he's smiling and his mood seems brighter than it was before.

Galen's not really sure what he did or said to gain the man's approval, but he's not about to ruin it by speaking up again. Instead he sits quietly and keeps his eyes on the distant green light of the faraway rift. The air smells like woodsmoke and evergreen. And everything's peaceful out here, at least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the lull before the storm. Next chapter has some fighting with Venatori and a dangerous giant. And then Adamant looms in the near future, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> I love every single kudos and they make my day more wonderful, so thank you to those who have left one. I do reply to every comment, but there is no pressure to reply back to me or to keep commenting on future chapters. Be safe and well!


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